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REVISED  EDITION  WITH  HELPS  TO  STUDY 

FRENCH 
SHORT  STORIES 


EDITED  FOR  SCHOOL  USE 
BY 

HARRY  C.  SCHWEIKERT 

CENTRAL  HIGH  SCHOOL,  ST.  LOUIS,  MO. 


"""o*,  !/«  %  ?  * 


SCOTT,  FORESMAN  AND  COMPANY 
CHICAGO  NEW  YORK 


VJo> 


COPTRIGHT  1918,   1920 

By  bc?OTT,  Poresman  and  Company 


ROBERT  O.    LAW   COMPANY 

EDITION    DOCK    MANUFACTURERS 
CHICAGO.       U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

In  late  years  constantly  increasing  attention  has  been 
given  to  the  study  of  the  short  story  in  our  schools  and 
colleges.  Numerous  texts  have  been  prepared  to  meet  this 
new  tendency^  but  in  all  of  them  there  has  been  a  prepon- 
derance of  English  and  American  stories.  The  few  foreign 
stories  included  in  some  of  the  collections  implied  a  scant 
recognition  of  the  fact  that  there  were  excellent  stories  in 
literatures  other  than  those  in  the  English  language. 

The  present  war  has  greatly  stimulated  interest  in  con- 
I  tinental  literature^  especially  in  that  of  our  Allies.  Of  all 
these  ;ione^is  richer  in  its  fiction  than  France.  The  high 
artistic  excellence  of  the  French  short  story  has  long  been 
recognized  and  the  more  important  French  writers  are  well 
known  everywhere;  but  up  to  the  present  no  representative 
collection  of  French  short  stories  has  been  made  for  school 
use.     This  volume  aims  to  present  such  a  collection. 

The  editor  wishes  to  make  a  general  acknowledgment 
of  his  indebtedness  to  all  previous  editors  of  collections  of 
short  stories  which  included  the  French.  He  has  also  re- 
ceived much  help  and  stimulation  from  the  many  recent  books 
on  the  art  of  the  short  story.  Special  acknowledgments  are 
due  to  Mr.  C.  E.  Miller  and  Mr.  R,  A.  Alpiser,  both  of 
the  Mercantile  Library  of  St.  Louis,  for  their  many  courte- 
sies, and  to  the  editor's  friend  and  colleague,  Mr.  Louis 
LaCroix. 

Acknowledgments  to  publishers  will  be  found  in  connec- 
tion with  the  stories  themselves. 

St.  Louis,  Mo.,  April,  1918.  H.C.S. 

3 


CpNTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface 3 

Introduction 

I.     The  Short  Story  Today 7 

II.     The  Short  Story  of  Antiquity 12 

III.     The  Short  Story  in  Modern  France 15 

Pronouncing  Glossary 18 

Balzac   19 

An  Episode  of  the  Eeign  of  Terror 21 

The  Atheist's  Mass 45 

Colonel    Chabert 67 

M^RIMEE    143 

Mateo   Falcone 144 

MussET   159 

Croisilles    160 

Maupassant 192 

The    Neckiace 194 

The  Wreck • 205 

Fright    219 

Two  Friends 227 

The  Hand .*. 235 

Daudet 243 

The  Last    Lesson 247 

The  Pope's  Mule 251 

The  Reverend  Father  Gaucher 's  Elixir 262 

Coppee    273 

A  Piece  of  Bread 274 

France 282 

The  Juggler  of  Notre  Dame ^84 

5 


I 

6  CONTENTS  ' 

PAGE 

Bazin    291 

The  Birds  in  the  Letter-Box 292 

Claretie 300 

Boum-Boum 301 

Lemaitre    • 309 

The   Siren 310 

Appendix 

Helps  to  Study 

The  Short  Story  Form 320 

Plan  for  the  Study  of  a  Short  Story 321 

Stories  in  This  Volume 324 

Chronological  Table  of  Short  Stories 329 


INTRODUCTION 

The  Short  Story  Toi)^Y\,^    J  J  ,,     .^ 

Fiction  in  its  most  comprehensive  sense  is  coeval  with 
the  beginnings  of  literature^  and  the  short  story  is  as  old  as 
the  art  of  narration  itself.  However^  it  has  been  left  to 
comparatively  modern  times  to  give  close  attention  to  the 
definition  of  the  literary  forms  now  included  in  the  general 
term  prose  fiction,  until  today  the  terms  novel,  romance, 
and  short  story  have  come  to  mean  something  fairly  distinc- 
tive. For  many  centuries  looseness  in  the  matter  of  con- 
struction was  characteristic  of  the  long  story  and  the  short, 
both  in  poetry  and  prose.  In  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth 
centuries,  when  the  modern  novel  began  to  shape  itself,  more 
care  was  bestowed  on  the  question  of  form,  and,  as  the  art 
of  fiction  progressed,  the  short  story  gradually  began  to 
emerge  as  a  separate  variety.  But  looseness  of  structure 
was  not  definitely  attacked  until  about  the  middle  of  the  last^ 
century  when  Poe,  by  precept  and  practice,  proclaimed  the 
short  story  as  something  new  and  distinct  in  fiction,  sub- 
ject to  special  laws  of  its  own.  He  published  Berenice,  his 
first  story,  in  1835,  and  in  1842  he  wrote  his  famous  review 
of  Hawthorne's  Twice  Told  Tales.  Both  the  Tales  and  the 
critique  are  landmarks  in  the  development  of  the  short 
story.  Poe's  influence  in  this  development  can  hardly  be 
over-emphasized.  In  France  his  stories  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  be  translated  by  Baudelaire  (1856-1865),  and  with 
such  remarkable  fidelity  and  exquisite  style  did  the  French- 
man perform  his  task  that  the  stories  ranked  practically  as 
original  work.  Poe  became  equally  popular  in  other  coun- 
tries, especially  in  England,  Germany,  and  Russia. 

7 


8  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

It  is  an  ancient  truism  to  say  that  literature  is  a  reflection 
of  life^  but  the  idea  has  special  application  in  a  consideration 
of  the  development  of  the  short  story.  In  the  last  fifty  years 
life  has  become  more  complicated^  the  field  of  human  thought 
and  en4eavor  has  \7idened^  action  has  become  more  and  more 
3pecializp;d_,.  -education  is  almost  common  property^  and 
reading  a  universal  habit.  These  very  conditions^  however^ 
haieiflQpos'ed- restrictions  on  leisure  for  readings  so  that  to- 
day a  hundred  readers  find  time  for  a  short  story  to  one 
who  can  devote  himself  to  a  long  novel.  The  short  story^ 
therefore^  fills  a  natural  want  created  in  large  part  by  the 
conditions  of  modern  life^  and  writers  have  not  been  slow 
in  taking  advantage  of  this  demand  for  brevity. 

A  concomitant  factor  in  the  popularization  of  the  short 
story  is  the  stupendous  growth  of  the  magazine  as  a  medium 
of  publication^  especially  in  America.  In  the  earlier  maga- 
zine^ more  particularly  in  England^  short  stories  were  used 
mainly  as  ''fillers/*  while  today  the  bookstands  everywhere 
fairly  groan  with  magazines  which  loudly  proclaim  them- 
selves as  containing  short  stories  only.  Even  the  more  con- 
servative of  the  older  periodicals  do  not  hesitate  to  call 
special  attention  to  their  short  stories.  Besides^  a  surpris- 
ingly large  number  of  these  stories  find  their  way  into  book 
form^  assuring  them  a  greater  degree  of  permanency.  This 
insistent  and  constantly  growing  demand  has  not  only  stimu- 
lated production;  it  has  also  been  responsible  for  greater 
merit  in  the  stories  themselves. 

A  study  of  the  short  story  inevitably  suggests  a  contrast 
with  the  novel.  In  a  general  way  the  material  is  the  same 
for  both^  as  well  as  the  fundamental  elements  of  construction. 
"The  subject-matter  with  which  prose  fiction  deals/'  says 
Prof.  Bliss  Perry,  "is  human  life  itself;  the  experience  of 
the  race,  under  countless  conditions  of  existence."  And  again, 
fiction  writers  "all  have  something  to  say  about  life."  That 


INTRODUCTION  9 

surely  is  broad  enough  to  include  both  novel  and  short  story. 
Yet  there  are  differences.  In  general^  the  novel  is  more 
expansive  in  theme  and  more  elastic  in  treatment;  it  can, 
and  usually  does,  reproduce  a  larger  phase  of  life  than  the 
short  story,  one  involving  more  characters  and  greater 
variety  of  incident,  and  affording  a  more  extended  range 
for  the  portrayal  of  human  emotion.  In  the  novel  there 
is  an  elaborate  plot,  frequently  supported  by  one  or  more 
sub-plots  which  help  to  create  the  complication  in  which 
much  of  the  interest  of  the  story  is  embodied.  Opportunity 
is  given  for  leisurely  narration,  often  relieved  by  incidental 
description — only  such,  however,  as  will  not  obscure  the 
effect  which  the  writer  wishes  to  create.  In  order  to  achieve 
his  purpose  artistically  the  novelist  arranges  the  incidents 
and  episodes  in  the  lives  of  his  characters  in  such  a  way 
as  to  lead  up  to  the  climax  which  permanently  affects  the 
destiny  of  the  important  characters  at  least,  or  involves 
them  in  a  definite  catastrophe. 

In  some  such  way  the  ideals  of  the  novel  may  be  sum- 
marized, and,  of  course,  some  of  the  points  just  made  apply 
to  the  short  story  as  well,  especially  the  older  variety.  But 
it  has  become  the  fashion  to  discriminate  between  the  novel 
and  the  short  story  and  much  has  been  written  in  this 
connection.  Rules  have  been  formulated  as  to  what  is  and 
what  is  not  a  short  story,  with  considerable  emphasis  on 
the  idea  that  a  short  story  is  more  than  a  story  that  simply 
happens  to  be  brief.  In  order  to  bring  out  these  distinguishing 
features  of  the  short  story  as  it  is  now  concerned  it  may  not 
be  irrelevant  to  give  a  brief  synopsis  of  the  fundamental 
elements  of  prose  fiction. 

In  every  story,  long  or  short,  there  ure  characters,  setting, 
and  'plot.  In  other  words,  there  are  certain  persons  or 
characters  who  do  something  amid  certain  surroundings.  The 
characters  are  described  by  direct  statement  of  the  author, 


10  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

or  by  what  they  do  and  say  as  the  story  progresses.  The 
setting  of  a  story  includes  its  location  in  time  and  place. 
The  plot  gives  life  to  the  story;  it  implies  action,  the 
incidents  and  episodes  in  which  the  characters  are  involved 
being  artistically  arranged  to  lead  to  some  certain  end.  The 
novel  employs  these  elements  with  greater  elaboration,  as 
suggested  in  a  previous  paragraph^  while  the  short  story 
of  necessity  is  of  simple  form. 

Many  attempts  have  been  made  in  recent  years  to  give 
more  precise  and  exact  definition  to  the  term  short  story  as 
distinguished  from  the  mere  tale  or  sketch,  but  it  does  not 
seem  essential  to  the  present  purpose  to  contribute  to  this 
discussion_,  for  in  this  book  all  three  forms  are  represented. 
The  one  trait  common  to  all  is  singleness  of  effect,  secured 
by  repression  in  the  use  of  material  and  by  concentrating 
the  interest  upon  some  one  character  or  some  one  incident; 
by  compactness  of  construction  and  swiftness  of  movement. 
The  contrast  with  the  looser  and  more  leisurely  manner  of 
the  novel  is  obvious.  In  the  ideal  short  story  there  is  little 
room  for  description.  Action  is  the  word.  The  rest  is 
usually  quite  secondary^  although  in  the  short  story  there 
has  always  been  a  marked  fondness  for  local  color  effects 
because  of  the  air  of  realism  which  they  impart. 

The  field  of  the  short  story  is  almost  unlimited,  both  in 
range  of  subject-matter  and  method  of  treatment.  The  most 
successful  stories  of  all  times  have  always  been  those  which 
appealed  to  the  deep-seated  emotions  common  to  humanity, 
such  as  love,  hate,  jealousy,  revenge,  friendship,  courage, 
devotion,  self-sacrifice;  or  again,  the  appeal  may  lie  in  the 
type  of  character,  the  soldier,  the  beggar,  the  criminal,  the 
athlete;  and  sometimes  the  appeal  is  in  the  effect  only,  for 
example,  humor,  pathos,  or  horror.  It  is  not  unusual  for 
writers  to  combine  two  or  more  of  these  motives.  In  the 
present  volume  nearly  all  of  the  elements  just  mentioned 


INTRODUCTION  11 

may  easily  be  detected^  and  readers  will  find  it  a  pleasant 
exercise  to  note^,  after  they  have  read  a  story,  what  effect 
has  been  produced  upon  them  and  how  the  author  managed 
his  material  in  order  to  secure  it. 

At  the  present  moment  no  form  of  writing  is  more  in 
vogue  than  tb^  short  story.  There  is  more  and  more  of  a 
tendency  to  place  the  emphasis  on  the  short.  Several 
reasons  for  this  have  already  been  indicated,  but  at  least 
one  other  may  be  mentioned,  imitation.  Two  of  the  foremost 
modern  writers  of  the  short  story  practiced  the  very  short 
form — Maupassant  and  O  Henry — and  they  did  it  sur- 
passingly well.  They  followed  Poe  in  pointing  the  way 
for  the  type  of  story  that  limited  itself  to  the  sharply-drawn 
photographic  detail,  and  so  successful  were  they  that  all 
the  world  seems  inclined  to  follow  them.  Narrative  art 
with  them  meant  the  focussing  of  the  attention  on  some 
one  character  or  some  one  trait  or  some  one  incident,  by 
means  of  which  they  created  the  single  impression  sought. 

The  modern  devotion  to  hurry  and  speed  has  helped  to 
popularize  the  very  short  form,  and  the  newspapers  and 
magazines  are  doing  their  best  to  foster  this  type.  They 
prefer  to  print  half  a  dozen  stories  by  different  authors 
rather  than  one  or  two  longer  ones  which  might  actually 
have  a  higher  claim  to  literary  distinction.  It  is  natural 
that  an  author  can  build  better  if  he  is  not  cramped  for 
elbow-room,  and  this  is  exemplified  by  some  of  the  older 
writers  born  before  brevity  became  an  altar  on  which  all 
else  must  be  sacrificed.  Among  them  are  such  writers  as 
Balzac,  Turgenev,  and  Tolstoi.  Readers  who  have  not 
already  done  so  should  not  fail  to  read  Turgenev's  A  Lear 
of  the  Steppes,  as  well  as  the  longer  of  the  short  stories  by 
Balzac.  Among  the  few  more  recent  writers  who  wrote  as 
they  pleased  rather  than  fit  their  stories  into  the  space 
allotted  by  the  magazines  was  Henry  James.     Some  day, 


12  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

when  it  is  no  longer  a  popular  literary  sport  to  cast  slurs 
upon  that  great  literary  figure,  the  reading  public  will  wake 
up  to  the  fact  that  it  has  been  most  unjustly  neglecting  one 
of  the  foremost  writers  of  the  short  story  in  English. 

II 

The  Short  Story  of  Antiquity 

Of  all  the  arts  that  of  story-telling  is  surely  the  oldest. 
Long  before  the  dawn  of  history  primitive  man  must  have 
found  delight  in  talking  about  his  success  in  the  hunt  or  his 
prowess  in  the  fight.  His  imagination  soon  taught  him  when 
to  drop  superfluous  facts  and  when  to  add  details  in  order  to 
make  a  good  story.  These  early  tales  of  adventure,  doubt- 
less, were  enriched  by  that  element  of  wonder  instilled  in 
the  savage  breast  by  the  mysteries  of  a  world  which  he  could 
not  explain  but  of  which  he  nevertheless  felt  himself  a  part. 
In  the  course  of  time  narratives  of  personal  adventure  tended 
to  be  combined  with  attempts  to  explain  the  powerful  forces 
of  nature,  thereby  helping  to  create  the  myth,  the  hero-tale, 
the  legend,  and  the  folk  tale.  These  stories  no  doubt  were 
crude  and  formless  enough  at  first,  but  eventually  were  given 
some  sort  of  rude  shape  by  the  professional  story-teller  who 
seems  to  have  been  common  to  all  peoples  and  all  literatures 
at  some  early  stage  in  their  development.  Stories  were  told, 
re-told,  added  to,  remolded,  handed  down  orally  from  one 
generation  to  another,  until  at  last  the  art  of  writing  made  it 
possible  to  preserve  them  with  a  certain  degree  of  per- 
manency. In  some  such  way  as  this  we  may  imagine  the 
art  of  story-telling  in  its  beginnings. 

Perhaps  the  oldest  known  short  stories  are  those  which 
have  been  preserved  on  the  papyri  of  ancient  Egypt,  some  of 
which  have  lately  become  accessible  to  English  readers. 
One  of  these.  The  Shipwrecked  Sailor,  printed  in  Canby's 
Book  of  the  Short  Story,  dates  back  to  the  twenty-fifth 


■  INTRODUCTION  13 

itury  before  our  era,  and  may  be  the  oldest  short  story  in 
stence.  The  stories  contained  in  the  Arabian  Nights 
are  also  very  old,  although  their  present  form  is  compara- 
tively modern.  In  ancient  Hebrew  Literature  a  number  of 
short  stories  may  be  found,  including  such  fine  examples  as 
the  Book  of  Ruth,  and  the  Prodigal  Son, 

In  Greek  and  Roman  literature  there  is  very  little  that 
can  properly  be  called  prose  fiction.  In  the  history  of 
Herodotus  a  number  of  anecdotes  and  stories  are  introduced, 
one  of  which  at  least  might  be  called  a  short  story.  This  is 
the  story  of  Polycrates  and  his  ring,  in  the  third  book.  The 
existing  synopses  of  the  so-called  lost  Tales  of  Miletus 
indicate  that  these  were  stories  written  primarily  to  enter- 
tain, and  the  fact  that  they  seem  to  have  been  popular  sug- 
gests that  there  may  have  been  other  collections  of  which  no 
trace  exists.  Of  extant  Greek  stories  the  Fables  of  Aesop 
(sixth  century,  b.  c.)  are  popular  to  this  day. 

In  Roman  literature  some  of  the  best  short  stories  are 
found  among  the  poets,  notably  Ovid,  who,  in  his  Meta- 
morphoses, re-tells  in  sprightly  fashion  many  of  the  old 
stories,  the  myths  and  legends,  of  both  Greece  and  Rome, 
as  well  as  stories  whose  origin  was  less  remote.  The  more 
important  Roman  prose  writers  rarely  introduced  anything 
resembling  the  short  story.  Of  the  minor  writers  at  least 
three  may  be  mentioned,  all  of  theiH  belonging  to  the  first 
century  of  our  era.  The  first  is  Petronius  Arbiter,  whose 
Trimalchio's  Dinner  is  readily  accessible  in  Professor  Peck's 
admirable  translation.  In  the  Noctes  Atticae  of  Aulus 
Gellius  is  found  that  charming  story,  Androcles  and  the 
Lion.  Probably  the  best  short  story  in  Latin  is  Cupid  and 
Psyche,  in  the  Metamorphoses  of  Apuleius. 

With  the  barbarian  invasions  of  the  fifth  century  and 
the  consequent  disintegration  of  the  Roman  Empire  classical 
literature  came  to  an  end.    For  almost  a  thousand  years  the 


14  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

civilization  of  Europe  was  adjusting  and  readjusting  itself 
to  different  modes  and  ideals  of  life^  arid  it  was  not  until  about 
the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century  that  forms  of  the  short  story 
began  once  more  to  receive  special  attention.  As  far  as  the 
history  of  the  short  story  is  concerned  the  most  significant 
work  of  the  new  era  was  the  Gesta  Romanorum  (Deeds  of 
the  Romans)^  a  collection  of  tales  of  all  sorts  from  every 
imaginable  source^  written  in  Latin.  This  work  became  ex- 
ceedingly popular  and  was  used  as  a  source-book  by  the 
story-writers  of  the  Middle  Age  and  after.  It  also  served 
to  make  more  widespread  the  idea  of  gathering  stories  into 
collections.  Often  an  added  interest  was  given  to  these  col- 
lections by  linking  the  stories  into  a  more  or  less  connected 
series.  This  was  especially  true  in  Italy^  the  most  famous 
example  being  the  Decameron  of  Boccaccio  (1313-1375). 
The  scheme  was  also  frequently  employed  in  France,  while 
in  England  it  was  adopted  by  Chaucer  in  The  Canterbury 
Tales,  and  in  America  Longfellow  used  it  in  his  Tales  of  a 
Wayside  Inn, 

One  of  the  most  fascinating  chapters  in  the  history  of 
story-telling  is  that  which  pertains  to  the  literature  of  the 
Age  of  Romance.  This  connects  itself  particularly  with 
France.  There,  as  elsewhere,  the  earliest  writing  was  in 
poetic  form.  In  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  centuries  the 
troubadours  went  from  place  to  place  chanting  their  chan- 
sons de  gestes,  or  songs  of  great  deeds.  Side  by  side  with 
these  were  the  fabliaux  and  the  contes  devots,  both  highly 
important  in  the  rise  and  development  of  the  short  story. 
In  the  fabliaux  of  the  Middle  Ages  the  story  is  commonly 
of  a  humorous  nature,  depending  upon  a  trick  for  its  point. 
Their  greatest  significance  lies  in  their  realistic  portrayal 
of  the  life  of  that  day.  The  contes  devots,  as  the  name 
indicates,  were  of  a  religious  nature,  obviously  didactic,  and 
closely  related  to  the  allegories  so  popular  at  that  time. 


INTRODUCTION  15 

But  the  importance  of  all  these  pales  when  placed  in 
juxtaposition  with  the  metrical  romance  proper.  The 
chansons  de  gestes  made  at  least  some  pretense  to  actual 
fact^  and  that  constitutes  their  chief  difference  as  far  as 
the  material  is  concerned.  The  outstanding  special  char- 
acteristic of  the  metrical  romance  was  the  element  of  wonder. 
Absolutely  nothing  seems  to  have  been  barred  which  might 
help  to  secure  the  desired  effect^  in  character^  settings  and 
plot.  There  were  stories  of  grim  giants^  horrible  dragons, 
beautiful  enchantresses,  imprisoned  damsels  to  be  rescued, 
enchanted  castles,  magicians,  magic  swords,  and  marvelous 
deeds  involving  superhuman  strength  and  endurance.  Ana- 
logues to  this  type  of  story  may  be  found  in  nearly  every 
great  literature,  but  in  the  metrical  romance  there  was  some- 
thing more.  This  was  the  general  attitude  of  chivalry — 
an  unselfish  devotion  to  ideals. 

HI 

The  Short  Story  in  Modern  France 

Between  the  fourteenth  and  the  eighteenth  centuries 
there  was  nothing  of  note  in  the  development  of  the  French 
short  story.  The  French  novel  had  enjoyed  its  first  period 
of  popularity  in  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  In  the  eighteenth 
century  it  became  essentially  a  reflection  of  the  manners 
of  the  time,  that  is  to  say,  highly  artificial.  During  the 
period  of  the  French  Revolution  and  the  years  immedi- 
ately following  much  fiction  was  produced  and  a  new  note 
was  struck.  This  new  note  was  Romanticism.  It  was  indi- 
cated not  so  much  in  the  form  and  material  used  as  in  the 
attitude  of  the  writer,  and  this  attitude  was  largely  the 
result  of  the  influence  of  Rousseau.  Its  special  feature  was 
revolt,  a  breaking  away  from  tradition  and  the  hard,  set 
mannerisms  of  an  earlier  day.  As  representative  of  this 
changed  spirit  Chateaubriand  became  the  first  important 


16  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

name  in  modern  French  fiction.  His  Atala  (1801),  based 
upon  his  experiences  with  the  American  Indians,  marked  the 
turning-point  for  the  new  movement. 

The  Romantic  movement  of  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth 
and  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  centuries  was  the  natural 
outcome  of  the  general  social  unrest  in  all  the  highly  civilized 
countries  of  Europe.  Among  the  French  novelists  of  this 
period  who  won  distinction  in  the  short  story  are  Balzac  and 
Merimee.  It  was  Victor  Hugo,  however,  who  became  the 
great  champion  of  Romanticism,  first  in  poetry  and  the 
drama,  then  in  fiction.  In  a  literary  movement,  as  in  a  politi- 
cal, there  is  a  tendency  to  go  to  extremes.  This  is  generally 
true  of  the  period  under  discussion;  but  the  short  story, 
which  developed  rapidly  during  the  years  surrounding  1850, 
showed  a  marked  inclination  to  moderate  the  eccentricities 
and  extravagancies  of  the  Romantic  school.  The  Romantic 
idea  was  paramount,  and,  while  men  like  Balzac  and  Meri- 
mee scoffed  at  it,  they  nevertheless  used  much  of  its  material 
and  adopted  its  methods,  especially  in  their  local  color  . 
effects.  This  effort  at  local  color  struck  the  keynote  for  a 
new  realism  quite  different  from  the  artificialities  thought 
realistic  in  the  preceding  century. 

It  will  be  noted  then  that  at  the  height  of  the  Romantic 
movement  there  was  already  a  swaying  in  the  opposite 
direction  due  mainly  to  the  conditions  of  life  after  the  middle 
of  the  century.  For  at  least  two  decades  there  was  compara- 
tive political  quiet  and  a  general  material  prosperity.  It 
was  also  an  age  of  unexampled  advance  in  all  the  phases  of 
human  endeavor,  more  particularly  in  science,  and  all  this 
tended  to  produce  a  satisfaction  with  life  as  it  was. 

Flaubert  and  Gautier  are  the  two  pioneers  of  this  new 
Realism  which,  nevertheless,  retained  many  of  the  earmarks 
of  Romanticism.  They  were  both  intimately  connected  with 
the  short  story,  the  one  chiefly  through  his  disciple,  Maupas- 


INTRODUCTION  17 

sant^  the  other  by  stories  of  his  own.  In  this  movement  also 
there  were  extremists^  especially  those  who  tried  to  carry 
scientific  method  over  into  fiction.  This  phase  of  Realism  be- 
came known  as  Naturalism^  with  Zola  its  greatest  exponent. 

These  various  tendencies  just  sketched  may  be  summa- 
rized as  follows:  The  Romanticist  tried  to  see  life  as  he 
would  like  it  to  be;  the  Realist  tried  to  portray  life  as  it 
was;  the  Naturalist  saw  life  as  something  to  dissect  and 
analyze^  giving  us  thereby  the  psychological  novel., 

The  introductory  sketches  to  the  various  authors  indicate 
the  important  landmarks  in  the  development  of  the  French 
short  story.  In  no  other  literature  has  the  short  story  at- 
tained such  high  artistic  excellence  as  it  has  in  that  of 
France.  This  is  due  to  several  reasons.  In  the  first  place^ 
the  French  are  an  art-loving  people,  with  a  keen  sense  for 
the  beautiful.  Furthermore,  the  French  are  conventional 
in  their  art  as  well  as  in  their  life.  Form  counts  for  a  great 
deal  with  them,  and  that  helps  to  account  for  the  technical 
perfection  of  their  short  stories.  The  French  language 
likewise  is  an  important  factor  in  the  creation  of  an  un- 
rivaled technique.  It  lends  itself  to  a  precision  and  con- 
ciseness of  statement  that  is  positively  unique.  In  conse- 
quence, the  French  have  always  been  conspicuous  for  style, 
and  their  critics  have  openly  maintained  that  style  is  per- 
haps the  most  essential  feature  in  a  work  of  art.  Outside  of 
France  this  view  is  not  always  accepted,  and  one  of  the 
criticisms  made  by  those  who  do  not  share  the  French  point 
of  view  is  that  in  French  stories  there  is  often  too  much  art 
and  too  little  matter.  The  writers  of  the  short  story  in 
France  have  consciously  given  much  attention  to  the  way 
their  stories  are  told,  and  the  selections  in  this  volume  will 
enable  the  reader  to  judge  for  himself  whether  or  not  the 
contention  can  be  upheld  that  the  French  have  written  the 
best  short  stories  ever  produced. 


1 


PRONOUNCING  GLOSSARY 


Amaud,  ar-no' 
Balzac,  bal-zak',  or  bal'zak 
Bazin,  ba-zan' 
Beluguet,  be-lii-ge' 
Bermutier,  ber-mii-tya' 
Bianchon,  be-an-shon' 
Boucard,  boo-ciir' 
Bourgeat,  boo-zha' 
Boutin,  boo -tan' 
Broussais,  broo-se' 
Brunetiere,  briin-tyar' 
Chabert,  cha-bar' 
Chelles,  shel 
Claretie,  klar-te' 
Coppee,  ko-pa' 
Crebillon,  kra-be-yon' 
Croisilles,  krwa-zel' 
Crottat,  kru-ta' 
Cuvier,  kll-vya' 
D'Assoucy,  da-soo-ci^ 
Daudet,  do-de' 
Delbecq,  del-bek' 
Desplein,     de-plan' 
Desroches,  da-rush' 
Du  Guesclin,  dii-ge-klan' 
Faguet,  fa-ge' 
Ferraud,  fer-ro' 
Flaubert,  flo'bar' 
Forestier,  fo-res-tya' 
Frangois,  fran-swa' 
Gaucher,  go-she' 
Gautier,  go-tya' 


Giuseppa,  joo-sep'pa 
Godeau,  go-do' 
Godeschal,  god'shal 
Langeais,  lan-zhe' 
Lemaitre,  le-ma'tr' 
Loisel,  Iwa-zel' 
Marquis    de    Beauseant, 

ke'  de  b5-se-an' 
Mateo    Falcone,    ma-ta'6 


i 


fal- 


co  ne 
Mathilde,   ma'teld 
Maupassant  de,  mo-pa-san'  de 
Merimee,  ma're-ma' 
Moliere,   mo-lyar' 
Morissot,  mo-ris-so' 
Murat,  mii-ra' 
Musset,  mu-se' 
Quinquet,  kan-ke' 
Ramponneau,  ran-p6n-no' 
Robespierre  de,  ro'bes-per'  de 

or  ro'bs-pyar 
Sauvage,  so-vagh' 
Simonnin,  se-m6n-an' 
Talleyrand,  tal-e-ran' 
Thibault,  ti-bo' 
Tistet  Vedene,  tis'te  ve-den' 
Tolstoi,  tol-stoi' 
Turgenev,  toor-gen'yef 
Vauquer,  vo-ke' 
Vergniaud,    varn-yo',    or    vSr- 
gno 


BALZAC 

(1799-1850) 

-HoNORE  DE  Balzac  was  born  at  Tours  in  1799.  He  was 
sent  to  school  first  at  Vendome  and  completed  his  education 
at  Paris.  His  parents  intended  him  to  be  a  lawyer^  and  he 
dutifully  followed  the  course  prescribed  for  entrance  to  that 
profession.  But  when  he  was  offered  an-  excellent  oppor- 
tunity to  practice  he  refused  to  consider  it^  having  early  in 
life  determined  to  be  a  writer.  Thoroughly  disgusted^  his 
father  withdrew  all  support^  and  Balzac  entered  upon  a 
career  of  struggle  and  poverty  while  endeavoring  to  make 
his  way  as  a  novelist.  His  rugged  perseverance  enabled 
him  to  leave  his  garret  aften  ten  years ;  but  he  never  achieved 
any  great  financial  success  because  of  his  erratic  ideas  on  the 
subject  of  money. 

Balzac  was  a  man  of  tremendous  physical  vigor  and 
boundless  energy.  He  worked  steadily  and  according  to 
fixed  methods^  retiring  at  six  in  the  evening  and  rising  at 
midnight ;  then,  by  drinking  coffee  excessively,  he  kept  him- 
self at  work  until  noon  of  the  following  day,  and  often 
longer.  His  afternoons  he  spent  walking  about  Paris, 
always  with  an  eye  to  possible  material  for  stories,  observing 
people,  their  modes  of  dress  and  habits  of  living,  the  houses 
in  which  they  lived,  the  streets;  everything,  in  fact,  which 
might  be  of  use  in  the  devising  of  his  stories.  He  took  a 
very  serious  view  of  his  work,  and  the  indefatigable  energy 
which  he  employed  in  original  creation  was  equaled  by  the 
painstaking  method  with  which  he  prepared  his  copy  for 
publication,  re-writing  and  revising  up  to  the  final  proofs. 

By  basing  his  stories  on  actual  observations  of  real  life 
Balzac  made  himself  the  father  of  modern  realism.     He 

19 


20  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

had  the  trick  of  being  able  to  create  the  effect  of  truth  by 
sheer  mass  of  small  things  in  the  environment  of  the  char- 
acters. In  fact^  he  carried  out  this  idea  with  such  prolixity 
that  in  some  passages  the  reader  tends  to  be  bored.  It  is 
interesting  to  note  the  contrast  in  method  between  Balzac 
and  Maupassant  in  this  connection.  Almost  as  prominent 
as  Balzac's  Icrve  of  actuality  is  his  love  of  the  exceptional 
situation.  This  led  him  frequently  into  extravaganza  and 
melodrama.  He  said  of  himself:  "I  love  exceptional  be- 
ings; I  am  one  of  them.''  He  had  a  passion  for  the 
shadowy^  the  mystic^  the  chicanery  of  secret  societies^  any- 
thing^ in  fact,  which  would  add  color  to  his  stories.  One 
must  indeed  recognize  in  the  great  realist  a  highly  romantic 
strand  of  temperament. 

In  the  twenty  years  of  his  literary  career  Balzac  wrote 
over  a  hundred  stories,  of  which  a  few  are  short  stories,  but 
the  great  bulk  novels.  His  purpose  always  was  to  present 
a  detailed  picture  of  the  French  life  of  his  day  in  all  its 
phases.  He  himself  grouped  his  stories  as  follows :  Scenes 
of  (1)  Private  Life;  (2)  Provincial  Life;  (3)  Parisian  Life; 
(4)  Political  Life;  (5)  Military  Life;  (6)  Country  Life; 
these,  with  (7)  Philosophical  Studies,  comprise  nearly  all  of 
his  stories,  and  to  the  whole  he  gave  the  title  La  Comedie 
Humaine. 

Balzac's  style  is  forceful  and  vigorous,  quite  in  character 
with  himself  and  his  subject  matter.  Often  it  is  somewhat 
rough  and  lacks  the  artistic  finish  of  many  later  French 
writers.  At  times  he  loved  to  revel  in  the  grim  and  sordid, 
and  in  such  stories  his  method  of  detail  is  apt  to  make  the 
result  brutal  and  revolting  to  English  readers.  But  he 
rarely  failed  to  make  his  story  interesting,  solid,  and  pro- 
found, no  small  distinction  in  a  writer  who  produced  as  much 
as  Balzac. 

The  Atheist's  Mass,  Colonel  Chahert,  and  An  Episode  of 
the  Reign  of  Terror,  the  stories  selected  for  this  volume, 
show  Balzac  at  his  very  best.  He  classified  the  first  two  as 
Scenes  of  Private  Life,  the  other  as  Political.    Most  of  his 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  21 

short  stories  are  scattered  through  volumes  containing  longer 
stories^  so  that  it  is  difficult  to  locate  them.  However^  several 
volumes  of  them  may  now  be  had  in  the  Everyman  Library. 
Balzac  remained  a  bachelor  for  fifty  years,  but  in  1850 
he  went  to  Russia  and  there  married  Madame  Hanska,  with 
whom  he  had  been  acquainted  for  many  years.  He  returned 
to  Paris  and  to  his  work,  but  the  feverish  activity  with 
which  he  had  worked  so  many  years  at  last  wore  him  out 
and  he  died  August  18,  1850, 

AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERRORS 

By  HONORfi  DE  BALZAC 

About  eight  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  January  22nd,  1793, 
an  aged  woman  was  coming  down  the  sharp  descent  of  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Martin  that  ends  in  front  of  the  church  of 
Saint-Laurent.  Snow  had  fallen  so  heavily  all  day  long  that 
hardly  a  footfall  could  be  heard.  The  streets  were  deserted. 
Fears  that  the  silence  around  naturally  enough  inspired  were 
increased  by  all  the  teri«or  under  which  France  was  then 
groaning.  So  the  old  lady  had  thus  far  met  with  no  one  else. 
Her  sight,  which  had  long  been  failing,  did  not  enable  her 
to  distinguish  far  off  by  the  light  of  the  street  lamps  some 
passers-by,  moving  like  scattered  shadows  in  the  huge  thor- 
oughfare of  the  Faubourg.  She  went  on  bravely  all  alone 
in  the  midst  of  this  solitude,  as  if  her  age  were  a  talisman 
that  could  be  relied  on  to  preserve  her  from  any  mishap. 

When  she  had  passed  the  Rue  des  Morts  she  thought  she 
perceived  the  heavy,  firm  tread  of  a  man  walking  behind  her. 
ilt  occurred  to  her  that  it  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  heard 
this  sound.     She  was  alarmed  at  the  idea  that  she  was  being 

1.  That  period  of  the  French  Revolution  when  the  faction  in  power 
made  it  a 'principle  to  execute  every  one  considered  hostile  to  their 
rule.  It  lasted  from  March,  1793,  to  the  fall  of  Robespierre  in  July, 
1794. 


22  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

followed^  and  she  tried  to  walk  faster  in  order  to  reach  a 
fairly  well-lighted  shop^  in  the  hope  that^  in  the  light  it  gave^ 
she  would  be  able  to  put  to  the  test  the  suspicions  that  had 
taken  possession  of  her. 

As  soon  as  she  was  within  the  circle  of  light  projected 
horizontally  by  the  shop-front,  she  quickly  turned  her  head 
and  caught  glimpse  of  a  human  form  in  the  foggy  darkness. 
This  vague  glimpse  was  enough  for  her.  She  tottered  for 
a  moment  under  the  shock  of  terror  that  overwhelmed  her, 
for  she  no  longer  doubted  that  she  had  been  followed  by  the 
stranger  from  the  first  step  she  had  taken  outside  her 
lodging.  The  longing  to  escape  from  a  spy  gave  her  strength. 
Without  being  able  to  think  of  what  she  was  doing,  she  began 
to  run^as  if  she  could  possibly  get  away  from  a  man  who 
must  necessarily  be  much  more  agile  than  herself. 

After  running  for  a  few  minutes  she  reached  a  confec- 
tioner's shop,  entered  it,  and  fell,  rather  than  sat,  down  upon 
a  chair  that  stood  in  front  of  the  counter.  Even  while  she 
was  raising  the  creaking  latch,  a  young  woman,  who  was 
busy  with  some  embroidery,  raised  her  eyes,  and  through 
the  small  panes  of  the  half-window  in  the  shop  door  recog- 
nized the  old-fashioned  violet  silk  mantle,  in  which  the  old 
lady  was  wrapped.  She  hurriedly  opened  a  drawer  as  if 
looking  for  something  she  was  to  hand  over  to  her. 

It  was  not  only  by  her  manner  and  the  look  on  her  face 
that  the  young  woman  showed  she  was  anxious  to  get  rid 
of  the  stranger  without  delay,  as  if  her  visitor  were  one  of 
those  there  was  no  pleasure  in  seeing;  but,  besides  this,  she 
allowed  an  expression  of  impatience  to  escape  her  on  finding 
that  the  drawer  was  empty.  Then,  without  looking  at  the 
lady,  she  turned  suddenly  from  the  counter,  went  toward 
the  back  shop,  and  called  her  husband,  who  at  once  made 
his  appearance. 

^'Wherever  have  you  put  away    .     .     .     }"  she  asked  of 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  23 

him^  with  an  air  of  mystery  without  finishing  her  question, 
but  calling  his  attention  to  the  old  lady  with  a  glance  of 
her  eyes. 

Although  the  confectioner  could  see  nothing  but  the 
immense  black  silk  bonnet,  trimmed  with  bows  of  violet 
ribbon,  that  formed  the  strange  visitor's  headgear,  he  left 
the  shop  again,  after  having  cast  at  his  wife  a  look  that 
seemed  to  say,  "Do  you  think  that  I  would  leave  that  in 
your  counter      .       .       .  ?" 

Surprised  at  the  motionless  silence  of  the  old  lady,  the 
shopwoman  turned  and  approached  her,  and  as  she  looked  at 
her  she  felt  herself  inspired  with  an  impulse  of  compassion, 
perhaps  not  unmingled  with  curiosity.  Although  the  woman's 
complexion  showed  an  habitual  pallor,  like  that  of  one 
who  makes  a  practice  of  secret  austerities,  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  a  recent  emotion  had  brought  an  unusual  paleness  to 
her  face.  Her  headdress  was  so  arranged  as  to  conceal  her 
hair.  No  doubt  it  was  white  with  age,  for  there  were  no 
marks  on  the  upper  part  of  her  dress  to  show  that  she  used 
hair  powder.  The  complete  absence  of  ornament  lent  to 
her  person  an  air  of  religious  severity.  Her  features  had  a 
grave,  stately  look.  In  these  old  times  the  manners  and 
habits  of  people  of  quality  were  so  different  from  those  of 
other  classes  of  society,  that  it  was  easy  to  distinguish  one 
of  noble  birth.  So  the  young  woman  felt  convinced  that  the 
stranger  was  a  ci-devant,  an  ex-aristocrat,  and  that  she  had 
belonged  to  the  court. 

*'Madame  .  .  ."  she  said  to  her  with  involuntary 
respect,  forgetting  that  such  a  title  was  now  forbidden. 

The  old  lady  did  not  reply.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  window  of  the  shop,  as  if  she  could  distinguish  some 
fearful  object  in  that  direction. 

"What  is  the  matter,  citizeness?"  asked  the  shopkeeper, 
who  had  returned  almost  Immediately. 


24  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

And  the  citizen-confectioner  roused  the  lady  from  her 
reverie  by  offering  her  a  little  cardboard  box  wrapped  in 
blue  paper. 

"Nothings  nothing,  my  friends/'  she  answered  in  a  sweet 
voice.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  confectioner's  face  as  if 
to  give  him  a  look  of  thanks,  but  seeing  the  red  cap^  on  his 
head,  she  uttered  a  cry:    *'Ah,  you  have  betrayed  me!" 

The  young  woman  and  her  husband  replied  by  a  gesture 
of  horror  at  the  thought,  which  made  the  stranger  blush, 
perhaps  at  having  suspected  them,  perhaps  with  pleasure. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  said,  with  childlike  gentleness.  Then, 
taking  a  louis  d'or^  from  her  pocket,  she  offered  it  to  the 
confectioner:   "Here  is  the  price  we  agreed  on,"  she  added. 

There  is  a  poverty  that  the  poor  readily  recognize.  The 
confectioner  and  his  wife  looked  at  one  another,  silently 
turning  each  other's  attention  to  the  old  lady,  while  both 
formed  one  common  thought.  This  louis  d'or  must  be  her 
last.  The  lady's  hands  trembled  as  she  offered  the  piece  of 
money,  she  looked  at  it  with  a  sadness  that  had  no  avarice 
in  it,  but  she  seemed  to  realize  the  full  extent  of  the  sacrifice 
she  made.  Starvation  and  misery  were  as  plainly  marked 
on  her  face  as  the  lines  that  told  of  fear  and  of  habits  of 
asceticism.  In  her  dress  there  were  traces  of  old  magnifi- 
cence. It  was  of  worn-out  silk.  Her  mantle  was  neat  though 
threadbare,  with  some  carefully  mended  lace  upon  it.  In  a 
word,  it  was  a  case  of  wealth  the  worse  for  wear.  The  people 
of  the  shop,  hesitating  between  sympathy  and  self-interest, 
began  by  trying  to  satisfy  their  consciences  with  words: 

"But,  citizeness,  you  seem  to  be  very  weak " 

"Would  Madame  like  to  take  something.'*"  said  the  woman, 
cutting  her  husband  short. 

2.  The  red  cap  was  the  symbol  of  revolution  and  was  worn  by  the 
radicals. 

3.  A  gold  coin  worth  $4.00. 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  2^ 

"We  have  some  very  good  soup/*  added  the  confectioner 

*'It  is  so  cold  tonight.  Perhaps  Madame  has  had  a  chill 
while  walking?  But  you  can  rest  here  and  warm  yourself 
for  a  while/' 

"We  are  not  as  black  as  the  devil!'*  exclaimed  the  con- 
fectioner. 

Won  by  the  tone  of  kindness  that  found  expression  in 
the  words  of  the  charitable  shopkeepers^  the  lady  let  them 
know  she  had  been  followed  by  a  stranger^  and  that  she  was 
afraid  to  go  back  alone  to  her  lodgings. 

"Is  that  all.^"  replied  the  man  in  the  red  cap^  "wait  a 
little^  citizeness." 

He  gave  the  louis  d'or  to  his  wife.  .  .  .  Then  moved 
by  that  sort  of  gratitude  that  finds  its  way  into  the  heart  of 
a  dealer  when  he  has  got  an  exorbitant  price  for  some 
merchandise  of  trifling  value^  he  went  and  put  on  his  National 
Guard's  uniform,  took  his  hat,  belted  on  his  sword,  and 
reappeared  as  an  armed  man.  But  his  wife  had  had  time 
to  reflect.  In  her  heart,  as  in  so  many  more,  reflection 
closed  the  open  hand  of  benevolence.  Anxious  and  fearful 
of  seeing  her  husband  involved  in  some  bad  business,  the 
confectioner's  wife  tried  to  pull  him  by  the  skirt  of  his  coat 
and  stop  him.  But  obeying  his  own  charitable  feelings,  the 
good  fellow  offered  at  once  to  escort  the  old. lady. 

"It  seems  that  the  man  the  citizeness  is  afraid  of  is  still 
prowling  about  in  front  of  our  shop,"  said  the  young  woman 
excitedly. 

"I  am  afraid  he  is,"  put  in  the  lady  naively. 

"What  if  he  were  a  spy?  ...  if  there  were  some 
plot?  .  .  .  Don't  go,  and  take  back  that  box  from 
her.     ..." 

These  words,  whispered  in  the  ear  of  the  confectioner  by 
his  wife,  froze  the  sudden  courage  that  had  inspired  him. 

"Well,   I'll  just  say  a  few  words  to  him,  and  rid  you 


26  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

of  him  soon  enough/*  exclaimed  the  shopkeeper_,  as  he 
opened  the  door  and  slipped  hurriedly  out. 

The  old  lady^  passive  as  a  child  and  almost  stupefied  by 
her  fear^  sat  down  again  on  the  chair.  The  good  shopkeeper 
was  soon  back.  His  face,  naturally  ruddy  enough  and  further 
reddened  by  his  oven  fire,  had  suddenly  become  pallid.  He 
was  a  prey  to  such  terror  that  his  legs  shook  and  his  eyes 
looked  like  those  of  a  drunken  man. 

"Do  you  want  to  get  our  heads  cut  off,  you  wretch  of  an 
aristocrat.^''  he  cried  out  in  a  fury.  **Come,  show  us  your 
heels,  and  don't  let  us  see  you  again,  and  don't  reckon  on 
my  supplying  you  with  materials  for  your  plots !" 

As  he  ended,  the  confectioner  made  an  attempt  to  take 
back  from  the  old  lady  the  little  box  which  she  had  put  into 
one  of  her  pockets.  But  hardly  had  his  bold  hands  touched 
her  dress,  than  the  stranger — preferring  to  risk  herself  amid 
the  perils  of  the  street  without  any  other  protector  but  God, 
rather  than  to  lose  what  she  had  just  bought,  regained  all  the 
agility  of  youth.  She  rushed  to  the  door,  opened  it  briskly, 
and  vanished  from  the  sight  of  wife  and  husband  as  they 
stood  trembling  and  astonished. 

As  soon  as  the  stranger  was  outside  she  started  off  at  a 
rapid  walk.  But  her  strength  soon  began  to  desert  her,  and 
she  heard  the  spy,  who  had  so  pitilessly  followed  her,  making 
the  snow  crackle  as  he  crushed  it  with  his  heavy  tread.  She 
had  to  stop.  He  stopped.  She  did  not  dare  to  address  him, 
or  even  to  look  at  him — it  might  be  on  account  of  the  fear 
that  had  seized  upon  her,  or  because  she  could  not  think 
what  to  say.     Then  she  went  on  again  walking  slowly. 

The  man  also  slackened  his  pace  so  as  to  remain  always 
just  at  the  distance  that  enabled  him  to  keep  her  in  sight. 
He  seemed  to  be  the  very  shadow  of  the  old  woman.  Nine 
o'clock  struck  as  the  silent  pair  once  more  passed  by  the 
church  of  Saint-Laurent. 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  27 

It  is  a  part  of  the  nature  of  all  minds^  even  of  the  weakest, 
to  find  a  feeling  of  calm  succeed  to  any  violent  agitation,  for  if 
our  feelings  are  infinite,  our  organism  has  its  limits.  So 
the  stranger,  finding  that  her  supposed  persecutor  did  her 
no  harm,  was  inclined  to  see  in  him  some  unknown  friend 
who  was  anxious  to  protect  her.  She  summed  up  in  her  mind 
all  the  circumstances  that  had  attended  the  appearance  of 
the  stranger,  as  if  seeking  for  some  plausible  motives  for 
this  consoling  opinion,  and  was  then  satisfied  to  recognize 
on  his  part  a  friendly  rather  than  an  evil  purpose.  Forgetful 
of  the  alarm,  which  this  man  had  so  short  a  time  ago  caused 
the  confectioner,  she  now  went  on  with  a  firm  step  into  the 
upper  part  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Martin. 

After  walking  for  half  an  hour  she  came  to  a  house 
situated  near  the  point  where  the  street,  which  leads  to  the 
Pantin  barrier,  branches  off  from  the  main  line  of  the 
Faubourg.  Even  at  the  present  day  the  neighborhood  is 
still  one  of  the  loneliest  in  all  Paris.  A  northeast  wind 
blowing  over  the  Buttes  Chaumont  and  Belleville  whistled 
between  the  houses,  or  rather  the  cottages,  scattered  about 
this  almost  uninhabited  valley,  in  which  the  en'closures  were 
formed  of  fences  built  up  of  earth  and  old  bones.  The 
desolate  place  seemed  to  be  the  natural  refuge  of  misery 
and  despair. 

The  man,  all  eagerness  in  the  pursuit  of  this  poor  creature, 
who  was  so  bold  as  to  traverse  these  silent  streets  in  the 
night,  seemed  struck  by  the  spectacle  that  presented  itself 
to  his  gaze.  He  stood  still,  full  of  thought,  in  a  hesitating 
attitude,  in  the  feeble  light  of  a  street  lamp,  the  struggling 
rays  of  which  could  hardly  penetrate  the  fog.  Fear  seemed 
to  sharpen  the  sight  of  the  old  lady,  who  thought  she  saw 
something  of  evil  omen  in  the  looks  of  the  stranger.  She 
felt  her  terror  reawakening,  and  took  advantage  of  the 
seeming  hesitation  that  had  brought  the  man  to  a  standstill 


28  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

to  slip  through  a  shadow  to  the  door  of  a  solitary  house^  she 
pushed  back  a  spring  latch  and  disappeared  in  an  instant 
like  a  ghost  upon  the  stage. 

The  unknown  man^  without  moving  from  where  he  stood^ 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  house^  the  appearance  of  which 
was  fairly  typical  of  that  of  the  wretched  dwelling  places 
of  this  suburb  of  Paris.  The  tumble-down  hovel  was  built 
of  bricks  covered  with  a  coat  of  yellow  plaster,  so  full  of 
cracks  that  one  feared  to  see  the  whole  fall  down  in  a  heap 
of  ruins  before  the  least  effort  of  the  wind.  There  were 
three  windows  to  each  floor,  and  their  frames,  rotten  with 
damp  and  warped  by  the  action  of  the  sun,  suggested  that 
the  cold  must  penetrate  freely  into  the  rooms.  The  lonely 
house  looked  like  some  old  tower  that  time  has  forgotten  to 
destroy.  A  feeble  gleam  lit  up  the  warped  and  crooked 
window-sashes  of  the  garret  window,  that  showed  up  the 
roof  of  this  poor  edifice,  while  all  the  rest  of  the  house  was 
in  complete  darkness. 

Not  without  difficulty  the  old  woman  climbed  the  rough 
and  clumsy  stair,  in  ascending  which  one  had  to  lean  on  a 
rope  that  took  the  place  of  a  handrail.  She  gave  a  low 
knock  at  the  door  of  the  garret  room  and  hurriedly  took  her 
seat  on  a  chair,  which  an  old  man  offered  to  her. 

"Hide  yourself !  Hide  yourself  \"  she  said  to  him,  "though 
we  so  seldom  go  out,  our  doings  are  known,  our  steps  are 
spied  upon.     ..." 

"Is  there  anything  new  then.^"  asked  another  old  woman 
who  was  seated  near  the  fire. 

"That  man,  who  has  been  prowling  round  the  house  since 
yesterday,  followed  me  this  evening.     .       .       /' 

At  these  words  the  three  inmates  of  the  hovel  looked  at 
each  other,  while  they  showed  on  their  faces  signs  of  serious 
alarm.     Of  the  three  the  old  man  was  the  least  agitated. 


I 


AN  EPISODE  OP'  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  29 

perhaps  because  he  was  the  most  in  danger.  Under  the 
weight  of  a  great  misfortune^,  or  under  the  pressure  of  perse- 
cution, a  brave  man  begins_,  so  to  say,  by  making  the  complete 
sacrifice  of  himself.  He  counts  each  day  as  one  more  victory 
won  over  fate.  The  looks  of  the  two  women  fixed  upon  this 
old  man  made  it  easy  to  see  that  he  was  the  one  object  of 
their  keen  anxiety. 

"Why  lose  our  trust  in  God,  my  sisters?"  he  said  in  a 
voice  low,  but  full  of  fervor;  **we  sang  His  praises  in  the 
midst  of  the  cries  of  the  murderers  and  of  the  dying  at  the 
convent  of  the  Carmelites.*  If  He  willed  that  I  should  be 
saved  from  that  butchery,  it  was  no  doubt  to  preserve  me 
for  some  destiny  that  I  must  accept  without  a  murmur.  God 
guards  His  own,  and  He  can  dispose  of  them  according  to 
His  will.  It  is  of  yourselves,  and  not  of  me,  that  we  must 
think.'* 

**No,"  said  one  of  the  old  women,  "what  are  our  lives 
compared  to  that  of  a  priest?** 

"Once  I  saw  myself  outside  of  the  Abbey  of  Chelles,*'^ 
I  considered  myself  as  a  dead  woman,'*  said  one  of  the  two 
nuns — the  one  who  had  remained  in  the  house. 

"Here  are  the  altar  breads,'*  said  the  other,  who  had  just 
come  in,  offering  the  little  box  to  the  priest.  "But  .  .  .  ** 
she  cried  out,  "I  hear  footsteps  on  the  stairs  !** 

All  three  listened.     .      .      .     The  sound  ceased. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,**  said  the  priest,  "if  some  one  tries 
to  get  to  see  you.  A  person  on  whose  good  faith  we  can 
depend  must  by  this  time  have  taken  all  necessary  steps  to 
cross  the  frontier,  in  order  to  come  here  for  the  letters  I 
have  written  to  the  Due  de  Langeais  and  the  Marquis  de 
Beauseant,  asking  them  to  see  what  can  be  done  to  take  you 

4.  An  order  of  monks  originally  organized  on  Mt.  Carmel  in  Pales- 
tine. 

5.  An  abbey  founded  in  660.  It  was  pillaged  and  the  inmates 
dispersed  in   the   early   days  of  the   Revolution. 


30  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

away  from  this  wretched  country^  and  the  suffering  and 
death  that  await  you  here." 

"You  are  not  going  with  us  then?"  exclaimed  the  two 
nuns  in  gentle  protest^  and  with  a  look  of  something  like 
despair. 

"My  place  is  where  there  are  still  victims/*  was  the 
priest's  simple  reply. 

They  were  silent  and  gazed  at  their  protector  with 
reverent  admiration. 

"Sister  Martha^"  he  said^  addressing  the  nun  who  had  gone 
to  get  the  altar  breads^  "this  envoy  of  ours  should  answer 
'Fiat  voluntas'^  to  the  password  'Hosanna,' " 

"There  is  some  one  on  the  stair  V  exclaimed  the  other  nun  ; 
and  she  opened  a  hiding-place  constructed  in  the  roof. 

This  time_,  in  the  deep  silence^  it  was  easy  to  catch  the 
sound  of  the  footsteps  of  some  man^  re-echoing  on  the  stairs 
that  were  rough  with  lumps  of  hardened  mud.  The  priest 
with  some  difficulty  huddled  himself  into  a  kind  of  cupboard^ 
and  the  nun  threw  some  old  clothes  over  him. 

"You  can  shut  the  door/'  he  said  in  a  smothered  voice. 

The  priest  was  hardly  hidden  away^  when  three  knocks 
at  the  door  made  both  the  good  women  start.  They  were 
exchanging  looks  of  inquiry  without  daring  to  utter  a  word. 
Both  seemed  to  be  about  sixty  years  of  age.  Separated  from 
the  world  for  some  forty  years^  they  were  like  plants^  that 
are  so  used  to  the  air  of  a  hothouse^  that  they  die  if  one  takes 
them  out.  Accustomed  as  they  were  to  the  life  of  the  convent 
they  had  no  idea  of  anything  else.  One  morning  their  cloister 
had  been  broken  open^  and  they  had  shuddered  at  finding 
themselves  free.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  the  state  of  nervous 
weakness  the  events  of  the  Revolution  had  produced  in  their 
innocent  minds.  Unable  to  reconcile  the  mental  habits  of 
the  cloister  with  the  difficulties  of  life^  and  not  fully  under- 

6.   "Thy  will  be  done,"  from  the  Lord's  Prayer. 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  31 

standing  the  circumstances  in  which  they  were  placed,  they 
were  like  children  of  whom  every  care  had  been  taken  till 
now,  and  who,  suddenly  deprived  of  their  mother's  care,  pray 
instead  of  weeping.  So  face  to  face  with  the  danger  which 
they  now  saw  before  them,  they  remained  silent  and  passive, 
knowing  of  no  other  defense  but  Christian  resignation. 

The  man  who  had  asked  for  admittance  interpreted  this 
silence  in  his  own  way.  He  opened  the  door  and  suddenly 
appeared  in  the  room.  The  two  nuns  shuddered  as  they 
recognized  the  man,  who  for  some  time  had  been  prowling 
around  their  house,  and  making  inquiries  about  them.  They 
remained  motionless,  looking  at  him  with  the  anxious  curi- 
osity of  untaught  children  who  stare  in  silence  at  a  stranger. 

The  man  was  tall  in  stature  and  heavily  built.  But  there 
was  nothing  in  his  attitude,  his  general  appearance,  or  the 
expression  of  his  face,  to  suggest  that  he  was  a  bad  character. 
Like  the  nuns,  he  kept  quite  still,  and  slowly  cast  his  eyes 
round  the  room  he  had  entered. 

Two  straw  mats  unrolled  on  the  floor  served  for  beds  for 
the  nuns.  There  was  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
there  stood  on  it  a  brass  candlestick,  some  plates,  three 
knives,  and  a  round  loaf  of  bread.  There  was  a  very  small 
fire  in  the  grate.  A  few  pieces  of  wood  heaped  up  in  a  corner 
were  a  further  sign  of  the  poverty  of  these  two  recluses. 
One  could  see  that  the  roof  was  in  a  bad  state,  for  the 
walls,  covered  with  a  coat  of  very  old  paint,  were  stained 
with  brown  streaks  that  showed  where  the  rain  had  leaked 
through.  A  reliquary,  rescued  no  doubt  from  the  sack  of  the 
Abbey  of  Chelles,  served  as  an  ornament  to  the  mantelpiece. 
Three  chairs,  two  boxes,  and  a  shabby  chest  of  drawers  com- 
pleted the  furniture  of  the  room.  A  door  near  the  fireplace 
suggested  that  there  was  a  second  room  beyond. 

The  individual,  who  had  in  such  an  alarming  way  intro- 
duced himself  to  this  poor  household,  had  soon  taken  mental 


32  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

note  of  all  the  contents  of  the  little  room.  A  feeling  of  pity 
could  be  traced  upon  his  countenance,  and  he  cast  a  kindly 
look  upon  the  two  women,  and  appeared  to  be  at  least  as 
much  embarrassed  as  they  were.  The  strange  silence  that 
all  three  had  kept  so  far  did  not  long  continue,  for  at  last 
the  stranger  realized  the  timidity  and  inexperience  of  the 
two  poor  creatures,  and  said  to  thetn  in  a  voice  that  he  tried 
to  make  as  gentle  as  possible: 

"I  do  not  come  here  as  an  enemy,  citizenesses  .  .  ." 
He  stopped,  as  if  recovering  himself,  and  went  on: 

*'Sisters,  if  any  misfortune  comes  your  way,  believe  me 
I  have  no  part  in  it.     .       .      .1  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you." 

They  still  kept  silence. 

"If  I  am  troubling  you,  if  .  .  .  if  I  am  causing  youi 
pain,  say  so  freely  .  .  .  and  I  will  go  away;  but  be 
assured  that  I  am  entirely  devoted  to  you;  that  if  there  is 
any  kindness  I  can  do  to  you,  you  can  claim  it  from  me! 
without  fear;  and  that  I  am  perhaps  the  only  one  who  is' 
above  the  law,  now  that  there  is  no  longer  a  king.     . 

There  was  such  an  air  of  truth  in  his  words,  that  Sisteri 
Agatha,  she  of  the  two  nuns  who  belonged  to  the  noble! 
family  of  Langeais,  and  whose  manners  seemed  to  indicate 
that  in  old  times  she  had  known  the  splendors  of  festive 
society  and  had  breathed  the  air  of  the  court — pointed  with 
an  alert  movement  to  one  of  the  chairs  as  if  asking  the  visitor 
to  be  seated.  The  stranger  showed  something  of  pleasure 
mingled  with  sadness,  as  he  understood  this  gesture,  but 
before  taking  the  chair  he  waited  till  both  the  worthy  ladies 
were  seated. 

**You  have  given   a   refuge  here,"   he  continued,   "to  a 

venerable  priest,  one  of  those  who  refused  the  oath,^  and 

who   had   a   miraculous   escape   from   the   massacre   at  the 

7.  A  decree  in  1790  compelled  all  the  clergy  to  take  an  oath  to 
support  the  Revolutionary  government.  Many  refused  and  became 
refugees. 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  33 

Carmelites.  .  .  ."  "Hosanna!"  .  .  .  said  Sister 
Agatha,  interrupting  the  stranger,  and  looking  at  him  with 
anxious  curiosity.  ^ 

"I  don't  think  that  is  his  name/*  he  replied. 

**But,  sir,  we  have  no  priest  here,"  said  Sister  Martha, 
eagerly. 

"If  that  is  so,  you  ought  to  be  more  careful  and  prudent.'' 
answered  the  stranger  in  a  gentle  tone,  as  he  stretched  out 
his  hand  to  the  table  and  took  a  breviary  from  it.  "I  don't 
suppose  you  know  Latin,  and     . 

He  said  no  more,  for  the  extraordinary  emotion  depicted 
on  the  faces  of  the  two  poor  nuns  made  him  fear  that  he 
had  gone  too  far.  They  were  trembling,  and  their  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  seemed  all 
sincerity,  "I  know  the  name  of  your  guest,  and  your  own 
names,  too,  and  for  the  last  three  days  I  have  been  aware 
of  your  distress  and  of  your  devoted  care  for  the  venerable 
Abbe  de     .      .      ." 

"Hush!"  said  Sister  Agatha,  in  her  simplicity,  putting  a 
finger  to  her  lips. 

"You  see.  Sister,  that  if  I  had  had  in  my  mind  the  horrible 
idea  of  betraying  you,  I  could  have  done  so  already,  again 
and  again.      ..." 

Hearing  these  words,  the  priest  extricated  himself  from 
his  prison,  and  came  out  again  into  the  room. 

"I  could  not  possibly  believe,  sir,"  he  said  to  the  stranger, 
"that  you  were  one  of  our  persecutors,  and  I  trust  myself 
to  you.     What  do  you  want  of  me?" 

The  holy  confidence  of  the  priest,  the  nobility  of  mind 
that  showed  itself  in  his  every  look,  would  have  disarmed 
even  assassins.  The  mysterious  man,  whose  coming  had 
caused  such  excitement  in  this  scene  of  resigned  misery, 
gazed  for  a  moment  at  the  group  formed  by  the  three  others ; 
2 


34  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

then^  taking  a  tone  in  which  there  was  no  longer  any  hesi- 
tation, he  addressed  the  priest  in  these  words: 

"Father,  I  came  to  ask  you  to  say  a  mass  for  the  dead, 
for  the  repose  of  the  soul  ...  of  one  .  .  .  of  a 
sacred  personage,  whose  body  will  never  be  laid  to  rest  in 
consecrated  gi'ound.     .       .      . " 

The  priest  gave  an  involuntary  shudder.  The  nuns,  who 
did  not  yet  understand  to  whom  it  was  the  stranger  alluded, 
sat  in  an  attitude  of  curiosity,  their  heads  stretched  forward, 
their  faces  turned  toward  the  two  who  were  speaking 
together.  The  priest  looked  closely  at  the  stranger,  on  whose 
face  there  was  an  unmistakable  expression  of  anxiety,  and 
also  of  earnest  entreaty. 

**Well,"  replied  the  priest,  "come  back  this  evening  at 
midnight,  and  I  shall  be  ready  to  celebrate  the  only  rites  for 
the  dead  that  we  may  be  able  to  offer  up  in  expiation  for  the 
crime  of  which  you  speak.     .       .       ."' 

The  stranger  started,  but  it  seemed  that  some  deep  and 
soothing  satisfaction  was  triumphing  over  his  secret  sorrow. 
After  having  respectfully  saluted  the  priest  and  the  two  holy 
women,  he  took  his  departure,  showing  a  kind  of  silent 
gratitude,  which  was  understood  by  these  three  generous 
souls. 

About  two  hours  after  this  scene  the  stranger  returned, 
knocked  softly  at  the  door  of  the  garret,  and  was  admitted 
by  Mademoiselle  de  Beauseant,  who  led  him  into  the  inner 
room  of  this  poor  place  of  refuge,  where  everything  had  been 
made  ready  for  the  ceremony. 

Between  two  chimney  shafts  that  passed  up  through  the 
room,  the  nuns  had  placed  the  old  chest  of  drawers,  the 
antiquated  outlines  of  which  were  hidden  by  a  magnificent 
altar  frontal  of  green  watered  silk.  A  large  crucifix  of 
ivory  and  ebony  hung  on  the  yellow-washed  wall  contrasting 
so  strongly  with  surrounding  bareness,  that  the  eye  could 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  35 

not  fail  to  be  drawn  to  it.  Four  slender  little  tapers^  which 
the  Sisters  had  succeeded  in  fixing  on  this  improvised  altar 
hj  attaching  them  to  it  with  sealing  wax^  threw  out  a  dim 
light  that  was  hardlj^  reflected  by  the  wall.  This  feeble 
illumination  barely  gave  light  to  the  rest  of  the  room;  but, 
as  it  thus  shone  only  on  the  sacred  objects,  it  seemed  like 
a  light  sent  down  from  heaven  on  this  unadorned  altar.  The 
floor  was  damp.  The  roof,  which  slanted  down  sharply  on 
two  sides,  as  is  usual  in  garret  rooms,  had  some  cracks  in  it 
through  which  came  the  night  wind — icy  cold. 

Nothing  could  be  more  devoid  of  all  pomp,  and  nevertheless 
there  was  perhaps  never  anything  more  solemn  than  this 
mournful  ceremony.  A  profound  silence,  in  which  one  could 
have  heard  the  least  sound  uttered  on  the  highway  outside, 
lent  a  kind  of  somber  majesty  to  the  midnight  scene.  Finally 
the  greatness  of  the  action  itself  contrasted  so  strongly  with 
the  poverty  of  its  surroundings  that  the  result  was  a  feeling 
of  religious  awe. 

On  each  side  of  the  altar  the  two  aged  nuns  knelt  on  the 
tiled  floor  without  taking  any  notice  of  its  deadly  dampness, 
and  united  their  prayers  with  those  of  the  priest,  who,  robed 
in  his  sacerdotal  vestments,  placed  on  the  altar  a  chalice 
of  gold  adorned  with  precious  stones,  a  consecrated  vessel 
that  had  been  saved,  no  doubt,  from  the  pillage  of  the  Abbey 
of  Chelles.  Beside  this  chalice,  a  token  of  royal  munificence, 
the  wine  and  water  destined  for  the  Holy  Sacrifice  stood 
ready  in  two  glasses,  such  as  one  would  hardly  have  found 
in  the  poorest  inn.  For  want  of  a  missal  the  priest  had 
placed  a  small  prayer-book  on  the  corner  of  the  altar.  An 
ordinary  plate  had  been  prepared  for  the  washing  of  the 
hands,  in  this  case  hands  all  innocent  and  free  from  blood. 
There  was  the  contrast  of  littleness  with  immensity;  of 
poverty  with  noble  sublimity ;  of  what  was  meant  for  profane 
uses  with  what  was  consecrated  to  God. 


36  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

The  stranger  knelt  devoutly  between  the  two  nuns.  But 
suddenly,  as  he  noticed  that,  having  no  other  means  of 
marking  that  this  was  a  mass  offered  for  the  dead,  the  priest 
had  placed  a  knot  of  crape  on  the  crucifix  and  on  the  base 
of  the  chalice,  thus  putting  holy  things  in  mourning,  the 
stranger's  mind  was  so  mastered  by  some  recollection  that 
drops  of  sweat  stood  out  upon  his  broad  forehead.  The 
four  silent  actors  in  the  scene  looked  at  each  other  mysteri- 
ously. Then  their  souls,  acting  and  reacting  on  each  other^ 
inspired  with  one  common  thought,  united  them  in  devout 
sympathy.  It  seemed  as  if  their  minds  had  evoked  the 
presence  of  the  martyr  whose  remains  the  quicklime  had 
burned  away,  and  that  his  shade  was  present  with  them  in 
all  its  kingly  majesty.  They  were  celebrating  a  requiem 
without  the  presence  of  the  body  of  the  departed.  Under 
the  disjointed  laths  and  tiles  of  the  roof  four  Christians  were 
about  to  intercede  with  God  for  a  King  of  France,^  and 
perform  his  obsequies  though  there  was  no  coffin  before  the 
altar.  There  was  the  purest  of  devoted  love,  an  act  of 
wondrous  loyalty  performed  without  a  touch  of  self-con- 
sciousness. No  doubt,  in  the  eyes  of  God,  it  was  like  the 
gift  of  the  glass  of  water  that  ranks  with  the  highest  of 
virtues.  All  the  monarchy  was  there,  finding  voice  in  the 
prayers  of  a  priest  and  two  poor  women ;  but  perhaps  the 
Revolution,  too,  was  represented  by  that  man,  whose  face 
showed  too  much  remorse  to  leave  any  doubt  that  he  was 
fulfilling  a  duty  inspired  by  deep  repentance. 

Before  he  pronounced  the  Latin  words,  Introibo  ad  altare 
Dei,^  the  priest,  as  if  by  an  inspiration  from  on  high,  turned 
to  the  three  who  were  with  him  as  the  representatives  of 
Christian  France,  and  said  to  them,  as  though  to  banish 
from  their  sight  all  the  misery  of  the  garret  room : 

8.  Louis  XVT,  beheaded  Jan.  21,  1793. 

9.  "I  will  go  unto  the  altar  of  God." 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  37 

"We  are  about  to  enter  into  the  sanctuary  of  God!" 

At  these  words^  uttered  with  deep  devotion^  a  holy  awe 
took  possession  of  the  §tranger  and  the  two  nuns.  Under 
the  vast  arches  of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome  these  Christians  could 
not  have  realized  the  majesty  of  God's  Presence  more  plainly 
than  in  that  refuge  of  misery;  so  true  is  it  that  between 
Him  and  man  all  outward  things  seem  useless^  and  Hia 
greatness  comes  from  Himself  alone.  The  stranger  showed 
a  really  fervent  devotion.  So  the  sanje  feelings  united  the 
prayers  of  these  four  servants  of  God  and  the  king.  The 
sacred  words  sounded  like  a  heavenly  music  in  the  midst 
of  the  silence.  There  was  a  moment  when  the  unknown  man 
could  not  restrain  his  tears.  It  was  at  the  Pater  Noster,^^ 
when  the  priest  added  this  prayer  in  Latin  which^  no  doubt^ 
the  stranger  understood: 

*'Et  remitte  scelus  regicidis  sicut  Ludovicus  eis  remisit 
semetipse."  (And  forgive  their  crime  to  the  regicides^  as 
Louis  himself  forgave  them.) 

The  nuns  saw  two  large  tear-drops  making  lines  of  mois- 
ture down  the  strong  face  of  the  unknown^  and  falling  to  the 
floor. 

The  Office  for  the  Dead  was  recited.  The  Domine  salvum 
fac  regem,^^  chanted  in  a  low  voice^  touched  the  hearts  of 
these  faithful  Royalists^  who  thought  how  the  child  king^ 
for  whom  at  that  moment  they  were  imploring  the  help  of 
the  Most  High^  was  a  captive  in  the  hands  of  his  enemies. 
The  stranger  shuddered  as  he  remembered  that  perhaps  a 
fresh  crime  might  be  committed^  in  which  he  would  no  doubt 
be  forced  to  have  a  share. 

When  the  Office  for  the  Dead  was  ended^  the  priest  made 
a  sign  to  the  two  nuns,  and  they  withdrew.  As  soon  as  he 
found  himself  alone  with  the  stranger,  he  went  toward  him 

10.  "Our  Father,"  the  opening  words  in  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  Latin. 

11.  "O  Lord,  save  the  king,"  part  of  the  mass  said  for  the  king. 


38  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

with  a  sad  and  gentle  air^  and  said  to  him  in  a  fatherly 
voice : 

"My  son_,  if  you  have  imbrued  your  hands  in  the  blocd  of 
the  martyr  king^  confide  in  me.  There  is  no  fault  that  is 
not  blotted  out  in  God's  eyes  by  a  repentance  as  sincere  and 
as  touching  as  yours  appears  to  be." 

At  the  first  words  uttered  by  the  priest  the  stranger  gave 
way  to  an  involuntary  movement  of  alarm.  But  he  recovered 
his  self-control  and  looked  calmly  at  the  astonished  priest. 

**Father^''  he  said  to  him^  in  a  voice  that  showed  evident 
signs  of  emotion^  *'no  one  is  more  innocent  than  I  am  of 
the  blood  that  has  been  shed.     . 

"It  is  my  duty  to  take  your  word  for  it^"  said  the  priest. 

There  was  a  pause^  during  which  once  more  he  looked 
closely  at  his  penitent.  Then^  persisting  in  taking  him  for 
one  of  those  timid  members  of  the  National  Convention^^ 
who  abandoned  to  the  executioner  a  sacred  and  inviolable 
head  in  order  to  save  their  own_,  he  spoke  once  more  in  a 
grave  tone: 

"Consider^  my  son^  that  in  order  to  be  guiltless  of  this 
great  crime  it  does  not  suffice  merely  to  have  had  no  direct 
co-operation  in  it.  Those  who^  although  they  could  have 
defended  the  king^  left  their  swords  in  their  scabbards^  will 
have  a  very  heavy  account  to  render  to  the  King  of  Heaven. 
Oh^  yes !"  added  the  old  priest^  shaking  his  head 
expressively  from  side  to  side.  "Yes^  very  heavy  !  .  .  . 
for  in  standing  idle/  they  have  made  themselves  the  involun- 
tary accomplices  of  this  awful  misdeed.'' 

"Do  you  think/'  asked  the  man^  as  if  struck  with  horror, 
"that  even  an  indirect  participation  in  it  will  be  punished.^ 

12.  The    revolutionary    government    of    France    between    Sept.    21,t 
1792,  and  Oct.  26,   1795.     This  Convention  declared  France  a  republic.^ 
There  were  three  factions  :  the  moderates  or  Girondists,  the  radicals  or > 
Jacobins,    and   those    who   were   undecided,   waiting   for   developments. 
The  reference  in  the  text  is  to  this  last  group,  many  of  whom  finally 
voted  with  the  radicals  for  the  execution  of  the  king.  v 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  39 

Are  we  then  to  take  it  that,  say,  a  soldier  who 
was  ordered  to  keep  the  ground  at  the  scaffold  is  guilty? 

The  priest  hesitated.  Pleased  at  the  dilemma  in  which  he 
had  put  this  Puritan  of  Royalism  by  placing  him  between 
the  doctrine  of  passive  obedience,  which,  according  to  the 
partisans  of  the  monarchy,  must  be  the  essence  of  the 
military  code,  and  the  equally  important  doctrine  which  was 
the  sanction  of  the  respect  due  to  the  person  of  the  king, 
the  stranger  eagerly  accepted  the  priest's  hesitation  as 
indicating  a  favorable  solution  of  the  doubts  that  seemed  to 
harass  him.  Then,  in  order  not  to  give  the  venerable  theo- 
logian further  time  for  reflection,  he  said  to  him : 

**I  would,  be  ashamed  to  offer  you  any  honorarium  for 
the  funeral  service  you  have  just  celebrated  for  the  repose 
of  the  soul  of  the  king,  and  to  satisfy  my  own  conscience. 
One  can  only  pay  the  price  of  what  is  inestimable  by  offering 
that  which  is  also  beyond  price.  Will  you  therefore  conde- 
scend, sir,  to  accept  the  gift  I  make  you  of  a  sacred  relic. 
.  Perhaps  the  day  will  come  when  you  will  under- 
stand its  value." 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  the  stranger  held  out  to  the  priest 
a  little  box  that  was  extremely  light.  The  latter  took  it  in 
his  hands  automatically,  so  to  say,  for  the  solemnity  of  the 
words  of  this  man,  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke,  the  reverence 
with  which  he  handled  the  box,  had  plunged  him  into  a 
reverie  of  deep  astonishment.  Then  they  returned  to  the 
room  where  the  two  nuns  were  waiting  for  them. 

"You  are,"  said  the  stranger  to  them,  *'in  a  house,  the 
proprietor  of  which,  the  plasterer.  Mucins  Scaevola,  who 
lives  in  the  first  story,  is  famous  in  the  quarter  for  his 
patriotism.  But  all  the  same  he  is  secretly  attached  to  the 
Bourbons.^^     Formerly  he  was  a  huntsman  to  Monseigneur 

13.  The  name  of  the  royal  house  of  France. 


40  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

the  Prince  de  Conti,  and  he  owes  his  fortune  to  him.  By 
staying  here  you  are  safer  than  anywhere  else  in  France. 
Remain  here,  therefore.  Certain  pious  souls  wiir  provide 
for  your  needs,  and  you  can  wait  without  danger  for  less 
evil  times.  A  year  hence,  on  January  21st"  (as  he  pro- 
nounced these  last  words  he  could  not  conceal  an  involuntary 
start),  "if  this  poor  place  is  still  your  refuge,  I  shall  come 
back  to  assist  once  more  with  you  at  a  mass  of  expiation.** 

He  stopped  without  further  explanation.  He  saluted  the 
silent  inhabitants  of  the  garret,  took  in  with  a  last  look  the 
signs  that  told  of  their  poverty,  and  left  the  room. 

For  the  two  simple  nuns  such  an  adventure  had  all  the 
interest  of  a  romance.  So  when  the  venerable  abbe  had  told 
them  of  the  mysterious  present  so  solemnly  made  to  him 
by  this  man,  they  placed  the  box  on  the  table,  and  the  feeble 
light  of  the  candle,  shining  on  the  three  anxious  faces, 
showed  on  all  of  them  a  look  of  indescribable  curiosity. 
Mademoiselle  de  Langeais  opened  the  box  and  found  in  it  a 
handkerchief  of  fine  cambric  soiled  with  perspiration.  As 
they  unfolded  it  they  saw  spots  on  it: 

"They  are  blood  stains,''  said  the  priest. 

"It  is  marked  with  the  royal  crown !"  exclaimed  the  other 
Sister. 

With  a  feeling  of  horror  the  two  Sisters  dropped  the 
precious  relic.  For  these  two  simple  souls  the  mystery  that 
surrounded  the  stranger  had  become  something  inexplicable. 
And,  as  for  the  priest,  from  that  day  he  did  not  even  attempt 
to  find  an  explanation  of  it  in  his  own  mind. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  three  prisoners  realized  that 
notwithstanding  the  Terror  an  invisible  hand  was  stretched 
out  to  protect  them.     At  first  firewood  and  provisions  were  M 
sent  in  for  them.     Then  the  two  nuns  guessed  that  a  woman  " 
was  associated  with  their  protector,  for  they  were  sent  linen 
and  clothes  that  would  make  it  possible  for  them  to  go  out 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  41 

without  attracting  attention  by  the  aristocratic  fashion  of 
the  dress  they  had  been  forced  to  wear  till  then.  Finally 
Mucins  Scaevola  provided  them  with  two  "civic  cards/' 
certificates  of  good  citizenship.  Often  by  roundabout  ways 
they  received  warnings  that  were  necessary  for  the  safety 
of  the  priest,  and  they  recognized  that  these  friendly  hints 
came  so  opportunely  that  they  could  only  emanate  from  some 
one  who  was  initiated  into  the  secrets  of  the  state.  Notwith- 
standing the  famine  from  which  Paris  was  suffering,  the 
refugees  found  rations  of  white  bread  left  regularly  at  their 
garret  door  by  invisible  hands.  However,  they  thought  they 
could  identify  in  Mucins  Scaevola  the  mysterious  agent  of 
this  beneficence,  which  was  always  as  ingenious  as  it  was 
well  directed. 

The  noble  refugees  in  the  garret  could  have  no  doubt  but 
that  their  protector  was  the  same  person  who  had  come  to 
assist  at  the  mass  of  expiation  on  the  night  of  January  22nd, 
1793.  He  thus  became  the  object  of  a  very  special  regard 
on  the  part  of  all  three.  They  hoped  in  him  only,  lived 
only  thanks  to  him.  They  had  added  special  prayers  for 
him  to  their  devotions;  morning  and  night  these  pious  souls 
offered  up  petitions  for  his  welfare,  for  his  prosperity,  for 
his  salvation.  They  begged  God  to  remove  all  temptations 
from  him,  to  deliver  him  from  his  enemies,  and  to  give  him  a 
long  and  peaceful  life.  Their  gratitude  was  thus,  so  to  say, 
daily  renewed,  but  was  inevitably  associated  with  a  feeling 
of  curiosity  that  became  keener  as  day  after  day  went  by. 

The  circumstances  that  had  attended  the  appearance  of 
the  stranger  were  the  subject  of  their  conversations.  They 
formed  a  thousand  conjectures  with  regard  to  him,  and  it  was 
a  fresh  benefit  to  them  of  another  kind  that  he  thus  served 
to  distract  their  minds  from  other  thoughts.  They  were  quite 
determined  that  on  the  night,  when,  according  to  his  promise, 
he  would  come  back  to  celebrate  the  mournful  anniversary  of 


42  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

the  death  of  Louis  XVI^  they  would  not  let  him  go  without 
establishing  more  friendly  relations  with  him. 

The  night  to  which  they  had  looked  forward  so  impatiently 
came  at  last.  At  midnight  the  heavy  footsteps  of  the  un- 
known resounded  on  the  old  wooden  stair.  The  room  had 
been  made  ready  to  receive  him;  the  altar  was  prepared. 
This  time  the  Sisters  opened  the  door  before  he  reached  it, 
and  both  hastened  to  show  a  light  on  the  staircase.  Made- 
moiselle de  Lange^s  even  went  down  a*  few  steps  in  order 
the  sooner  to  see  their  benefactor. 

*'Come/'  she  said  to  him  in  a  voice  trembling  with  affection, 
"come     .       .       .     you  are  expected.'* 

The  man  raised  his  head,  and  without  replying  cast  a 
gloomy  look  at  the  nun.  She  felt  as  if  a  mantle  of  ice  had 
fallen  around  her,  and  kept  silence.  At  the  sight  of  him 
the  feeling  of  gratitude  and  of  curiosity  died  out  in  all  their 
hearts.  He  was  perhaps  less  cold,  less  taciturn,  less  terrible 
than  he  appeared  to  these  souls,  whom  the  excitement  of 
their  feelings  disposed  to  a  warm  and  friendly  welcome.  The 
three  poor  prisoners  realized  that  the  man  wished  to  remain 
a  stranger  to  them,  and  they  accepted  the  situation. 

The  priest  thought  that  he  noticed  a  smile,  that  was  at 
once  repressed,  play  upon  the  lips  of  the  unknown,  when 
he  remarked  the  preparations  that  had  been  made  for  his 
reception.  He  heard  mass  and  prayed.  But  then  he  went 
away  after  having  declined,  with  a  few  words  of  polite 
refusal,  the  invitation  that  Mademoiselle  de  Langeais  offered 
him  to  share  with  them  the  little  supper  that  had  been  made 
ready. 

After  the  9th  Thermidor^* — (the  fall  of  Robespierre) — 
both  the  nuns  and  the  Abbe  de  Marolles  were  able  to  go 

14.  The  National  Convention  made  over  the  calendar.  Sept.  22, 
1792,  was  declared  the  beginning  of  the  year  1.  There  were  twelye 
months,  their  names  being  supposed  to  correspond  to  the  time  of  the 
year  in  which  they  came.     Thermidor  was  the  eleventh. 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR  43 

about  in  Paris  without  incurring  the  least  danger.  The  old 
priest's  first  excursion  was  to  a  perfumer's  shop  at  the  sign 
of  the  Reine  des  Fleurs,  kept  by  Citizen  Ragon  and  his  wife^ 
formerly  perfumers  to  the  court,  who  had  remained  faithful 
to  the  royal  family.  The  Vendeans^^  made  use  of  them  as 
their  agents  for  corresponding  with  the  exiled  princes  and 
the  royalist  committee  at  Paris.  The  abbe,  dressed  as  the 
times  required,  was  standing  on  the  doorstep  of  the  shop, 
which  was  situated  between  the  Church  of  Saint  Roch  and 
the  Rue  des  Frondeurs,  when  a  crowd,  which  filled  all  the 
Rue  Saint-Honore,  prevented  him  from  going  out. 

*'What  is  the  matter.^*'  he  asked  Madame  Ragon. 

*'It's  nothing,"  she  replied.  "It's  the  cart  with  the  execu- 
tioner on  the  way  to  the  Place  Louis  XV.  Ah !  we  saw  it 
often  enough  last  year.  But  toda,j,  four  days  after  the  anni- 
versary of  January  2 1st,  one  can  watch  that  terrible  proces- 
sion go  by  without  feeling  displeasure." 

*'Why.f*"  said  the  abbe,  "it  is  not  Christian  of  you  to  talk 
thus." 

"But  it's  the  execution  of  the  accomplices  of  Robespierre. 
They  did  their  best  to  save  themselves,  but  they  are  going  in 
,  '  their  turn  where  they  sent  so  many  innocent  people  !" 

The  crowd  was  pouring  past  like  a  flood.     The  Abbe  de 
Marolles,  yielding  to  an  impulse  of  curiosity,  saw,  standing 
erect  on  the  cart,  the  man  who  three  days  before  had  come 
to  hear  his  mass. 
K|:    "Who  is  that.^"  he  said,  "the  man  who   ..." 

"It's  the  hangman,"  replied  Monsieur  Ragon,  giving  the 
executioner  the  name  he  bore  under  the  monarchy. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  cried  out  Madame  Ragon,  "Monsieur 

I'Abbe  is  dying !" 

15.  The  Vendeans,  in  southwestern  France,  were  staunch  Catholics 
and  remained  devoted  to  the  monarchy,  which  upheld  their  church.  A 
serious  revolt  took  place  in  the  Vendee  when  the  National  Convention 
tried  to  enforce  its  conscription  act,  demanding  at  the  same  time  the 
loath  of  loyalty  to  the  republican  government  from  the  priests. 


44  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

And  the  old  lady  seized  a  bottle  of  smelling  salts  with 
which  to  revive  the  aged  priest  from  a  fainting  fit. 

"No  doubt/'  he  said^  **what  he  gave  me  was  the  handker- 
chief with  which  the  King  wiped  his  forehead  as  he  went 
to  martyrdom.  .  .  .  Poor  man !  .  .  .  The  steel 
blade  had  a  heart  when  all  France  was  heartless  ! 

The  perfumers  thought  that  the  poor  priest  was  raving. 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

By  HONORS  DE  BALZAC 

Doctor  Bianchon — a  physician  to  whom  science  owes 
a  beautiful  physiological  theory,  and  who,  though  still  a 
young  man,  has  won  himself  a  place  among  the  celebrities 
of  the  Paris  School,  a  center  of  light  to  which  all  the  doctors 
of  Europe  pay  homage — had  practiced  surgery  before  de- 
voting himself  to  medicine.  His  early  studies  were  directed 
by  one  of  the  greatest  surgeons  in  France,  the  celebrated 
Desplein,  who  was  regarded  as  a  luminary  of  science.  Even 
his  enemies  admitted  that  with  him  was  buried  a  technical 
skill  that  he  could  not  bequeath  to  any  successor.  Like  all 
men  of  genius  he  left  no  heirs.  All  that  was  peculiarly  his 
own  he  carried  to  the  grave  with  him. 

The  glory  of  great  surgeons  is  like  that  of  actors  whose 
work  exists  only  so  long  as  they  live,  and  of  whose  talent 
no  adequate  idea  can  be  formed  when  they  are  gone.  Actors 
and  surgeons,  and  also  great  singers  like  those  artists  who 
increase  tenfold  the  power  of  music  by  the  way  in  which 
they  perform  it — all  these  are  the  heroes  of  a  moment. 
Desplein  is  a  striking  instance  of  the  similarity  of  the  desti- 
nies of  such  transitory  geniuses.  His  name,  yesterday  so 
famous,  today  almost  forgotten,  will  live  among  the  special- 
ists of  his  own  branch  of  science  without  being  known  be- 
yond it. 

But  is  not  an  unheard-of  combination  of  circumstances 
required  for  the  name  of  a  learned  man  to  pass  from  the 
domain  of  science  into  the  general  history  of  mankind  ?  Had 
Desplein  that  universality  of  acquirements  that  makes  of  a 
man  the  expression,  the  type  of  a  century?     He  was  gifted 

45 


46  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

with  a  magnificent  power  of  diagnosis.  He  could  see  into 
the  patient  and  his  malady  by  an  acquired  or  natural  intui- 
tion^ that  enabled  him  to  grasp  the  peculiar  characteristics 
of  the  individual,  and  determine  the  precise  moment,  the 
hour,  the  minute,  when  he  should  operate,  taking  into  ac- 
count both  atmospheric  conditions  and  the  special  tempera- 
ment of  his  patient.  In  order  thus  to  be  able  to  work  hand 
in  hand  with  Nature,  had  he  studied  the  ceaseless  union  of 
organized  and  elementary  substances  contained  in  the  atmos- 
phere, or  supplied  by  the  earth  to  man,  who  absorbs  and 
modifies  them  so  as  to  derive  from  them  an  individual  result  ? 
Or  did  he  proceed  by  that  power  of  deduction  and  analogy 
to  which  the  genius  of  Cuvier  ^  owed  so  much  ? 

However  that  may  be,  this  man  had  made  himself  master 
of  all  the  secrets  of  the  body.  He  knew  it  in  its  past  as  in 
its  future,  taking  the  present  for  his  point  of  departure.  But 
did  he  embody  in  his  own  person  all  the  science  of  his  time, 
as  was  the  case  with  Hippocrates,  Galen,  and  Aristotle  ?  ^ 
Did  he  lead  a  whole  school  towards  new  worlds  of  knowl- 
edge.'* No.  And  while  it  is  impossible  to  deny  to  this  inde- 
fatigable observer  of  the  chemistry  of  the  human  body  the 
possession  of  something  like  the  ancient  science  of  Magism — 
that  is  to  say  the  knowledge  of  principles  in  combination,  of 
the  causes  of  life,  of  life  as  the  antecedent  of  life,  and  what 
it  will  be  through  the  action  of  causes  preceding  its  exist- 
ence— it  must  be  acknowledged  that  all  this  was  entirely 
personal  to  him.  Isolated  during  his  life  by  egotism,  this 
egotism  was  the  suicide  of  his  fame.  His  tomb  is  not  sur- 
mounted by  a  pretentious  statue  proclaiming  to  the  future 
the  mysteries  that  genius  has  unveiled  for  it. 

But  perhaps  the  talents  of  Desplein  were  linked  with  his 
beliefs,  and  therefore  mortal.     For  him  the  earth's  atmos- 

1.  A  famous  French  naturalist. 

2.  The  first  two  were  Greek  physicians,  the  third  a  Greek  philoso- 
pher. 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  47 

phere  was  a  kind  of  envelope  generating  all  things.  He 
regarded  the  earth  as  an  egg  in  its  shell  and  unable  to  solve 
the  old  riddle  as  to  whether  the  egg  or  the  hen  came  first, 
he  admitted  neither  the  hen  nor  the  egg.  He  believed  neither 
in  a  mere  animal  nature  giving  origin  to  the  race  of  man,  nor 
in  a  spirit  surviving  him.  Desplein  was  not  in  doubt.  He 
asserted  his  theories.  His  plain  open  atheism  was  like 
that  of  many  men,  some  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  world, 
but  invincibly  atheistic — atheists  of  a  type  of  which  reli- 
gious people  do  not  admit  the  existence.  This  opinion  could 
hardly  be  otherwise  with  a  man  accustomed  from  his  youth 
to  dissect  the  highest  of  beings,  before,  during,  and  after 
life,  without  finding  therein  that  one  soul  that  is  so  neces- 
sary to  religious  theories.  He  recognized  there  a  cerebral 
center,  a  nervous  center,  and  a  center  for  the  respiratory  and 
circulatory  system,  and  the  two  former  so  completely  sup- 
plemented each  other,  that  during  the  last  part  of  his  life 
he  had  the  conviction  that  the  sense  of  hearing  was  not  abso- 
lutely necessary  for  one  to  hear,  nor  the  sense  of  vision  abso- 
lutely necessary  for  sight,  and  that  the  solar  plexus  could  re- 
place them  without  one  being  aware  of  the  fact.  Desplein, 
recognizing  these  two  souls  in  man,  made  it  an  argument 
for  his  atheism,  without  however  assuming  anything  as  to 
the  belief  in  God.  This  man  was  said  to  have  died  in  final 
impenitence,  as  many  great  geniuses  have  unfortunately 
died,  whom  may  God  forgive.  * 

Great  as  the  man  was,  his  life  had  in  it  many  "little- 
nesses'' (to  adopt  the  expression  used  by  his  enemies,  who 
were  eager  to  diminish  his  fame),  though  it  would  perhaps 
be  more  fitting  to  call  them  ''apparent  contradictions."  Fail- 
ing to  understand  the  motives  on  which  high  minds  act, 
envious  and  stupid  people  at  once  seize  hold  of  any  surface 
discrepancies  to  base  upon  them  an  indictment,  on  which 
they  straightway  ask  for  judgment.     If,  after  all,  success 


48  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

crowns  the  methods  they  have  attacked,  and  shows  the  co- 
ordination of  preparation  and  result,  all  the  same  some- 
thing will  remain  of  these  charges  flung  out  in  advance. 
Thus  in  our  time  Napoleon  was  condemned  by  his  contem- 
poraries for  having  spread  the  wings  of  the  eagle  towards 
England.  They  had  to  wait  till  1822  for  the  explanation 
of  1804,  and  of  the  flat-bottomed  boats  of  Boulogne. 

In  the  case  of  Desplein,  his  fame  and  his  scientific  knowl- 
edge not  being  open  to  attack,  his  enemies  found  fault  with 
his  strange  whims,  his  singular  character.  For  he  possessed 
in  no  small  degree  that  quality  which  the  English  call  "eccen- 
tricity.'* Now  he  would  be  attired  with  a  splendor  that  sug- 
gested Crebillon's  ^  stately  tragedy ;  and  then  he  would  sud- 
denly affect  a  strange  indifference  in  the  matter  of  dress. 
One  saw  him  now  in  a  carriage,  now  on  foot.  By  turns 
sharp-spoken  and  kindly;  assuming  an  air  of  closeness  and 
stinginess,  but  at  the  same  time  ready  to  put  his  fortune  at 
the  disposal  of  exiled  professors  of  his  science,  who  would 
do  him  the  honor  of  accepting  his  help  for  a  few  days — no 
one  ever  gave  occasion  for  more  contradictory  judgments. 
Although  for  the  sake  of  obtaining  a  decoration  that  doctors 
were  not  allowed  to  canvass  for,  he  was  quite  capable  of  let- 
ting a  prayer-book  slip  out  of  his  pocket  when  at  court,  you 
may  take  it  that  in  his  own  mind  he  made  a  mockery  of 
everything.  He  had  a  deep  disdain  for  men,  after  having 
caught  glimpsed  of  their  true  character  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  solemn  and  the  most  trivial  acts  of  their  existence.  In 
a  great  man  all  his  characteristics  are  generally  in  keeping 
with  each  other.  If  one  of  these  giants  has  more  talent  than 
wit,  it  is  all  the  same  true  that  his  wit  is  something  deeper 
than  that  of  one  of  whom  all  that  can  be  said  is  that  **He  is  a 
witty  fellow.'*  Genius  always  implies  a  certain  insight  into 
the  moral  side  of  things.    This  insight  may  be  applied  to  one 

3.  A  French  writer  of  tragedies. 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  49 

special  line  of  thought,  but  one  cannot  see  the  flower  with- 
out at  the  same  time  seeing  the  sun  that  produces  it.  The 
man  who,  hearing  a  diplomatist  whom  he  was  saving  from 
death  ask,  "How  is  the  Emperor?"  remarked,  "The  courtier 
is  recovering,  and  the  man  will  recover  with  him  V*  was  not 
merely  a  doctor  or  a  surgeon,  but  was  also  not  without  a 
considerable  amount  of  wit.  Thus  the  patient,  unwearying 
observation  of  mankind  might  do  something  to  justify  the 
exorbitant  pretensions  of  Desplein,  and  make  one  admit 
that,  as  he  himself  believed,  he  was  capable  of  winning  as 
much  distinction  as  a  Minister  of  State,  as  he  had  gained  as 
a  surgeon. 

Amongst  the  problems  that  the  life  of  Desplein  presented 
to  the  minds  of  his  contemporaries,  we  have  chosen  one  of 
the  most  interesting,  because  the  key  to  it  will  be  found  in 
the  ending  of  the  story,  and  will  serve  to  clear  him  of  many 
stupid  accusations  made  against  him. 

Among  all  Desplein's  pupils  at  the  hospital,  Horace  Bian- 
chon  was  one  of  those  to  whom  he  was  most  strongly  at- 
tached. Before  becoming  a  resident  student  at  the  Hotel 
Dieu,^  Horace  Bianchon  was  a  medical  student,  living  in 
the  Quartier  Latin  ^  in  a  wretched  lodging-house,  known 
by  the  name  of  the  Maison  Vauquer.  There  the  poor  young 
fellow  experienced  the  pressure  of  that  acute  poverty,  which 
is  a  kind  of  crucible,  whence  men  of  great  talent  are  ex- 
pected to  come  forth  pure  and  incorruptible,  like  a  diamond 
that  can  be  sub j  ected  to  blows  of  all  kinds  without  breaking. 
Though  the  fierce  fire  of  passion  has  been  aroused,  they  ac- 
quire a  probity  that  it  cannot  alter,  and  they  become  used 
to  struggles  that  are  the  lot  of  genius,  in  the  midst  of  the 
ceaseless  toil,  in  which  they  curb  desires  that  are  not  to  be 
satisfied.  Horace  was  an  upright  young  man,  incapable  of 
taking  any  crooked  course  in  matters  where  honor  was  in- 

4.  A  famous  Paris  hospital.  5.  The  student  quarter  of  Paris. 


50  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

volved ;  going  straight  to  the  point ;  ready  to  pawn  his  over- 
coat for  his  friends^  as  he  was  to  give  them  his  time  and  his 
long  vigils.  In  a  word^  Horace  was  one  of  those  friends  who 
do  not  trouble  themselves  as  to  what  they  are  to  receive  in 
return  for  what  they  bestow,  taking  it  for  granted  that,  when 
it  comes  to  their  turn,  they  will  get  more  than  they  give. 
Most  of  his  friends  had  for  him  that  heartfelt  respect  which 
is  inspired  by  unostentatious  worth,  and  many  of  them  would 
have  been  afraid  to  provoke  his  censure.  But  Horace  mani- 
fested these  good  qualities  without  any  pedantic  display. 
Neither  a  puritan  nor  a  preacher,  he  would  in  his  simplicity 
enforce  a  word  of  good  advice  with  any  oath,  and  was  ready 
for  a  bit  of  good  cheer  when  the  occasion  offered.  A  pleas- 
ant comrade,  with  no  more  shyness  than  a  trooper,  frank 
and  outspoken — not  as  a  sailor,  for  the  sailor  of  today  is  a 
wily  diplomatist — but  as  a  fine  young  fellow,  who  has  noth- 
ing in  his  life  to  be  ashamed  of,  he  went  his  way  with  head 
erect  and  with  a  cheerful  mind.  To  sum  it  all  up  in  one 
word,  Horace  was  the  Pylades  of  more  than  one  Orestes,^ 
creditors  nowadays  playing  most  realistically  the  part  of 
the  Furies."^  He  bore  his  poverty  vrith  that  gaiety  which  is 
perhaps  one  of  the  chief  elements  of  courage,  and,  like  all 
those  who  have  nothing,  he  contracted  very  few  debts.  As 
enduring  as  a  camel,  as  alert  as  a  wild  deer,  he  was  stead- 
fast in  his  ideas  and  in  his  conduct. 

The  happiness  of  Bianchon's  life  began  on  the  day  when 
the  famous  surgeon  became  acquainted  with  the  good  quali- 
ties and  the  defects,  which,  each  as  well  as  the  other,  make 
Dr.  Horace  Bianchon  doubly  dear  to  his  friends.  When  the 
teacher  of  a  hospital  class  receives  a  young  man  into  his 
inner  circle,  that  young  man  has,  as  the  saying  goes,  his 

6.  See  Gayley's  Classic  Myths,  page  315,  for  the  story  of  a  friend- 
stip  which  has  become  proverbial. 

7.  Avenging  deities. 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  51 

foot  in  the  stirrup.  Desplein  did  not  fail  to  take  Bianchon 
with  him  as  his  assistant  to  wealthy  houses,  where  nearly 
always  a  gratuity  slipped  into  the  purse  of  the  student,  and 
where,  all  unconsciously,  the  young  provincial  had  revealed 
to  him  some  of  the  mysteries  of  Parisian  life.  Desplein 
would  have  him  in  his  study  during  consultations,  and  found 
work  for  him  there.  Sometimes  he  would  send  him  to  a 
watering  place,  as  companion  to  a  rich  invalid, — in  a  word, 
he  was  preparing  a  professional  connection  for  him.  The 
result  of  all  this  was  that  after  a  certain  time  the  tyrant  of 
the  operating  theater  had  his  right-hand  man.  These  two — 
one  of  them  at  the  summit  of  professional  honors  and  sci- 
ence, and  in  the  enjoyment  of  an  immense  fortune  and  an 
equal  renown,  the  other  a  modest  cipher  without  fortune  or 
fame — became  intimate  friends.  The  great  Desplein  told 
everything  to  his  pupil.  Bianchon  came  to  know  the  mys- 
teries of  this  temperament,  half  lion,  half  bull,  that  in  the 
end  caused  an  abnormal  expansion  of  the  great  man's  chest 
and  killed  him  by  enlargement  of  the  heart.  He  studied  the 
odd  whims  of  this  busy  life,  the  schemes  of  its  sordid  avarice, 
the  projects  of  this  politician  disguised  as  a  man  of  science. 
He  was  able  to  forecast  the  disappointments  that  awaited 
the  one  touch  of  sentiment  that  was  buried  in  a  heart  not  of 
stone  though  made  to  seem  like  stone. 

One  day  Bianchon  told  Desplein  that  a  poor  water-carrier 
in  the  Quartier  Saint-Jacques  was  suffering  from  a  horrible 
illness  caused  by  overwork  and  poverty.  This  poor  native 
of  Auvergne  had  only  potatoes  to  eat  during  the  hard  win- 
ter of  1821.  Desplein  left  all  his  patients.  At  the  risk  of 
breaking  down  his  horse,  he  drove  at  full  speed,  accom- 
panied by  Bianchon,  to  the  poor  man's  lodging,  and  himself 
superintended  his  removal  to  a  private  nursing  home  estab- 
lished by  the  celebrated  Dubois  in  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Denis.    He  went  to  attend  to  the  man  himself,  and  gave  him. 


52  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

when  he  had  recovered^  money  enough  to  buy  a  horse  and  a 
water-cart.  The  Auvergnat  distinguished  himself  by  an  un- 
conventional proceeding.  One  of  his  friends  fell  sick^  and 
he  at  once  brought  him  to  Desplein,  and  said  to  his  bene- 
factor : — 

"I  would  not  think  of  allowing  him  to  go  to  anyone  else.'' 

Overwhelmed  with  work  as  he  was,  Desplein  grasped  the 
water-carrier's  hand  and  said  to  him: — 

* 'Bring  them  all  to  me." 

He  had  this  poor  fellow  from  the  Cantal  ^  admitted  to 
the  Hotel  Dieu,  where  he  took  the  greatest  care  of  him. 
Bianchon  had  on  many  occasions  remarked  that  his  chief  had 
a  particular  liking  for  people  from  Auvergne,  and  especially 
for  the  water-carriers ;  but  as  Desplein  took  a  kind  of  pride 
in  his  treatment  of  his  poor  patients  at  the  Hotel  Dieu,  his 
pupil  did  not  see  anything  very  strange  in  this. 

One  day  when  Bianchon  was  crossing  the  Place  Saint- 
Sulpice  he  caught  sight  of  his  teacher  going  into  the  church 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Desplein,  who  at  this 
period  would  not  go  a  step  without  calling  for  his  carriage, 
was  on  foot,  and  slipped  in  quietly  by  the  side  door  in  the 
Rue  du  Petit  Lion,  as  if  he  was  going  into  some  doubtful 
place.  The  student  was  naturally  seized  by  a  great  curi- 
osity, for  he  knew  the  opinions  of  his  master;  so  Bianchon 
too  slipped  into  Saint-Sulpice  and  was  not  a  little  surprised 
to  see  the  famous  Desplein,  this  atheist,  who  thought  very 
little  of  angels,  as  beings  who  give  no  scope  for  surgery,  this 
scoffer,  humbly  kneeling,  and  where  .^  ...  in  the  Lady 
Chapel,  where  he  heard  a  mass,  gave  an  alms  for  the  church 
expenses  and  for  the  poor,  and  remained  throughout  as 
serious  as  if  he  were  engaged  in  an  operation. 

Bianchon's  astonishment  knew  no  bounds.  "If,"  he  said 
to  himself,  *'I  had  seen  him  holding  one  of  the  cords  of  the 

8.  Auvergne,  central  France. 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  53 

canopy  at  a  public  procession  on  Corpus  Christi  I  might  just 
laugh  at  him ;  but  at  this  time  of  day,  all  alone^  without  any 
one  to  see  him^  this  is  certainly  something  to  set  one  think- 
ing!" 

Bianchon  had  no  wish  to  appear  to  be  playing  the  spy 
on  the  chief  surgeon  of  the  Hotel  Dieu,  so  he  went  away. 
It  so  happened  that  Desplein  asked  him  to  dine  with  him 
that  day,  not  at  his  house  but  at  a  restaurant.  Between  the 
cheese  and  the  dessert  Bianchon,  by  cleverly  leading  up  to 
it,  managed  to  say  something  about  the  mass,  and  spoke  of 
it  as  a  mummery  and  a  farce. 

"A  farce,"  said  Desplein,  "that  has  cost  Christendom 
more  bloodshed  than  all  the  battles  of  Napoleon,  all  the 
leeches  of  Broussais.  It  is  a  papal  invention,  that  only 
dates  from  the  sixth  century.  What  torrents  of  blood  were 
not  shed  to  establish  the  feast  of  Corpus  Christi,  by  which 
the  Court  of  Rome  sought  to  mark  its  victory  in  the  ques- 
tion of  the  real  presence,  and  the  schism  that  has  troubled 
the  church  for  three  centuries !  The  wars  of  the  Count  of 
Toulouse  and  the  Albigenses  were  the  sequel  of  that  affair. 
The  Vaudois  and  the  Albigenses  refused  to  recognize  the 
innovation." 

In  a  word  Desplein  took  a  pleasure  in  giving  vent  to  all 
his  atheistic  ardor,  and  there  was  a  torrent  of  Voltairian 
witticisms,  or  to  describe  it  more'  accurately,  a  detestable 
imitation  of  the  style  of  the  Citateur,^ 

"Hum!"  said  Bianchon  to  himself,  "what  has  become  of 
my  devotee  of  this  morning?" 

He  kept- silent.  He  began  to  doubt  if  it  was  really  his 
chief  that  he  had  seen  at  Saint-Sulpice.  Desplein  would  not 
have  taken  the  trouble  to  lie  to  Bianchon.  They  knew  each 
other  too  well.  They  had  already  exchanged  ideas  on  points 
quite  as   serious,  and  discussed  systems  of  the  nature  of 

9.  A  book  attacking  orthodox  Catholicism. 


54  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

things^  exploring  and  dissecting  them  with  the  knives  and 
scalpels  of  incredulity. 

Three  months  went  by.  Bianchon  took  no  further  step 
in  connection  with  the  incident,  though  it  remained  graven 
in  his  memory.  One  day  that  year  one  of  the  doctors  of  the 
Hotel  Dieu  took  Desplein  by  the  arm  in  Bianchon's  pres- 
ence, as  if  he  had  a  question  to  put  to  him. 

* 'Whatever  do  you  go  to  Saint-Sulpice  for,  my  dear 
master.^'*  he  said  to  him. 

"To  see  one  of  the  priests  there,  who  has  caries  in  the 
knee,  and  whom  Madame  the  Duchess  of  Angouleme  did  me 
the  honor  to  recommend  to  my  care,'*  said  Desplein. 

The  doctor  was  satisfied  with  this  evasion,  but  not  so 
Bianchon. 

"Ah,  he  goes  to  see  diseased  knees  in  the  church!  Why, 
he  went  to  hear  mass !"  said  the  student  to  himself. 

Bianchon  made  up  his  mind  to  keep  a  watch  on  Desplein. 
He  remembered  the  day,  the  hour,  when  he  had  caught  him 
going  into  Saint-Sulpice,  and  he  promised  himself  that  he 
would  be  there  next  year  on  the  same  day  and  at  the  same 
hour,  to  see  if  he  would  catch  him  again.  In  this  case  the 
recurring  date  of  his  devotions  would  give  ground  for  a  sci- 
entific investigation,  for  one  ought  not  to  expect  to  find  in 
such  a  man  a  direct  contradiction  between  thought  and 
action. 

Next  year,  on  the  day  and  at  the  hour,  Bianchon,  who 
by  this  time  was  no  longer  one  of  Desplein's  resident  stu- 
dents, saw  the  surgeon's  carriage  stop  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  de  Tournon  and  the  Rue  du  Petit  Lion.  His  friend 
got  out,  passed  stealthily  along  by  the  wall  of  Saint-Sulpice, 
and  once  more  heard  his  mass  at  the  Lady  altar.  It  was  in- 
deed Desplein,  the  chief  surgeon  of  the  hospital,  the  atheist 
at  heart,  the  devotee  at  haphazard.  The  problem  was  get- 
ting to  be  a  puzzle.     The  persistence  of  the  illustrious  man 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  55 

of  science  made  it  all  very  complicated.  When  Desplein 
had  gone  out  Bianchon  went  up  to  the  sacristan^  who  came 
to  do  his  work  in  the  chapel^  and  asked  him  if  that  gentle- 
man was  a  regular  attendant  there. 

**Well^  I  have  been  here  twenty  years/'  said  the  sacristan, 
**and  all  that  time  M.  Desplein  has  come  four  times  a  year 
to  be  present  at  this  mass.     He  founded  it." 

**A  foundation  made  by  him  \"  said  Bianchon_,  as  ^e  went 
away.     **Well,  it  is  more  wonderful  than  all  the  mysteries." 

Some  time  passed  by  before  Dr.  Bianchon^  although  the 
friend  of  Desplein^  found  an  opportunity  to  talk  to  him  of 
this  singular  incident  in  his  life.  Though  they  met  in  con- 
sultation or  in  society^  it  was  difficult  to  get  that  moment 
of  confidential  chat  alone  together^  when  two  men  sit  with 
their  feet  on  the  fender,  and  their  heads  resting  on  the 
backs  of  their  arm-chairs,  and  tell  each  other  their  secrets. 
At  last,  after  a  lapse  of  seven  years,  and  after  the  Revolu- 
tion of  1830,  when  the  people  had  stormed  the  Archbishop's 
house,  when  Republican  zeal  led  them  to  destroy  the  gilded 
crosses  that  shone  like  rays  of  light  above  the  immense  sea 
of  housetops,  when  unbelief  side  by  side  with  revolt  paraded 
the  streets,  Bianchon  again  came  upon  Desplein  as  he  en- 
tered the  church  of  Saint-Sulpice.  The  doctor  followed  him 
in,  and  took  his  place  beside  him,  without  his  friend  taking 
any  notice  of  him,  or  showing  the  least  surprise.  Together 
they  heard  the  mass^  he  had  founded. 

*'Will  you  tell  me,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Bianchon  to 
Desplein,  when  they  left  the  church,  "the  reason  for  this 
monkish  proceeding  of  yours  .^^  I  have  already  caught  you 
going  to  mass  three  times,  you  of  all  men !  You  must  tell 
me  the  meaning  of  this  mystery,  and  explain  to  me  this 
flagrant  contradiction  between  your  opinions  and  your  con- 
duct. You  don't  believe  in  God  and  you  go  to  mass !  My 
dear  master,  you  are  bound  to  give  me  an  answer." 


56  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"I  am  like  a  good  many  devotees^  men  deeply  religious 
to  all  appearance_,  but  quite  as  much  atheists  as  we  can  be^ 
you  and  I.'* 

And  then  there  was  a  torrent  of  epigrams  referring  to 
certain  political  personages^  the  best  known  of  whom  pre- 
sents us  in  our  own  time  with  a  new  edition  of  the  Tartuffe 
of  Moliere. 

**I  am  not  asking  you  about  all  that,"  said  Bianchon. 
"But  I  do  want  to  know  the  reason  for  what  you  have  just 
been  doing  here.     Why  have  you  founded  this  mass  ?'* 

"My  word!  my  dear  friend/'  said  Desplein,  "I  am  on  the 
brink  of  the  grave_,  and  I  may  just  as  well  talk  to  you  about 
the  early  days  of  my  life/* 

Just  then  Bianchon  and  the  great  man  were  in  the  Rue 
des  Quatre  Vents,  one  of  the  most  horrible  streets  in  Paris. 
Desplein  pointed  to  the  sixth  story  of  one  of  those  high, 
narrow- fronted  houses  that  stand  like  obelisks.  The  outer 
door  opens  on  a  passage,  at  the  end  of  which  is  a  crooked 
stair,  lighted  by  those  small  inner  windows  that  are  aptly 
called  jours  de  souffrance.^^  It  was  a  house  with  a  green- 
ish-colored front,  with  a  furniture  dealer  installed  on  the 
ground  floor,  and  apparently  a  different  type  of  wretched- 
ness lodging  in  every  story.  As  he  raised  his  arm 
with  a  gesture  that  was  full  of  energy,  Desplein  said  to 
Bianchon — 

"I  lived  up  there  for  two  years  \" 

"I  know  that.  D'Arthez  used  to  live  there.  I  came 
there  nearly  every  day  when  I  was  quite  a  young  fellow, 
and  in  those  days  we  used  to  call  it  *the  store  bottle  of  great 
men!*    Well,  what  comes  next?'* 

"The  mass  that  I  have  just  heard  is  connected  with 
events  that  occurred  when  I  was  living  in  that  garret  in 
which  you  tell  me  D'Arthez  once  lived,  the  room  from  the 

10.  Literally,  "days  of  durance." 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  57 

window  of  which  there  is  a  line  hanging  with  clothes  drying 
on  it^  just  above  the  flower-pot.  I  had  such  a  rough  start 
in  life^  my  dear  Bianchon,  that  I  could  dispute  with  any 
one  you  like  the  palm  for  suffering  endured  here  in  Paris. 
I  bore  it  all^  hunger^  thirsty  want  of  money^  lack  of  clothes, 
boots,  linen — all  that  is  hardest  in  poverty.  I  have  tried 
to  warm  my  frozen  fingers  with  my  breath  in  that  'store 
bottle  of  great  men,'  which  I  should  like  to  revisit  with  you. 
As  I  worked  in  the  winter  a  vapor  would  rise  from  my  head, 
and  I  could  see  the  steam  of  perspiration  like  we  see  it 
about  the  horses  on  a  frosty  day.  I  don't  know  where  one 
finds  the  foothold  to  stand  up  against  such  a  life.  I  was 
all  alone,  without  help,  without  a  penny  to  buy  books  or 
to  pay  the  expenses  of  my  medical  education:  without  a 
friend,  for  my  irritable,  gloomy,  nervous  character  did  me 
harm.  No  one  would  recognize  in  my  fits  of  irritation  the 
distress,  the  struggles  of  a  man  who  is  striving  to  rise  to 
the  surface  from  his  place  in  the  very  depths  of  the  social 
system.  But  I  can  say  to  you,  in  whose  presence  I  have  no 
need  to  cloak  myself  in  any  way,  that  I  had  that  basis  of 
sound  ideas  and  impressionable  feelings,  which  will  always 
be  part  of  the  endowment  of  men  strong  enough  to  climb 
up  to  some  summit,  after  having  long  plodded  through  the 
morass  of  misery.  I  could  not  look  for  any  help  from  my 
family  or  my  native  place  beyond  the  insufficient  allowance 
that  was  made  to  me.  To  sum  it  all  up,  at  that  time  my 
breakfast  in  the  morning  was  a  roll  that  a  baker  in  the  Rue 
du  Petit  Lion  sold  cheaply  to  me  because  it  was  from  the 
baking  of  yesterday  or  the  day  before,  and  which  I  broke 
up  into  some  milk;  thus  my  morning  meal  did  not  cost  me 
more  than  a  penny.  I  dined  only  every  second  day,  in  a 
boarding-house  where  one  could  get  a  dinner  for  eightpence. 
Thus  I  spent  only  fourpence-halfpenny  a  day.  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  what  care  I  would  take  of  such  things  as  clothes 


58  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

and  boots !  I  am  not  sure  that  in  later  life  we  feel  more 
trouble  at  the  treachery  of  a  colleague  than  we  have  f  elt^  you 
and  I^  at  discovering  the  mocking  grimace  of  a  boot  sole  that 
is  coming  away  from  the  sewings  or  at  hearing  the  rending 
noise  of  a  torn  coat  cuff.  I  drank  only  water.  I  looked  at 
the  cafes  with  the  greatest  respect.  The  Cafe  Zoppi  seemed 
to  me  like  a  promised  land^  where  the  Luculluses  of  the 
Quartier  Latin  had  the  exclusive  right  of  entry.  *Shall  I 
ever,'  I  used  sometimes  to  ask  myself,  'shall  I  ever  be  able 
to  go  in  there  to  take  a  cup  of  coffee  and  hot  milk,  or  to 
play  a  game  of  dominoes  ?' 

**Well,  I  brought  to  my  work  the  furious  energy  that  my 
poverty  inspired.  I  tried  rapidly  to  get  a  grasp  of  exact 
knowledge  so  as  to  acquire  an  immense  personal  worth  in 
order  to  deserve  the  position  I  hoped  to  reach  in  the  days 
when  I  would  have  come  forth  from  my  nothingness.  I  con- 
sumed more  oil  than  bread.  The  lamp  that  lighted  me  during 
these  nights  of  persistent  toil  cost  me  more  than  my  food. 
The  struggle  was  long,  obstinate,  without  encouragement. 
I  had  won  no  sympathy  from  those  around  me.  To  have 
friends  must  one  not  associate  v/ith  other  young  fellows, 
and  have  a  few  pence  to  take  a  drink  with  them,  and  go 
with  them  wherever  students  are  to  be  found  ?  I  had  nothing. 
And  no  one  in  Paris  quite  realizes  that  nothing  is  really 
nothing.  If  I  ever  had  any  occasion  to  reveal  my  misery 
I  felt  in  my  throat  that  nervous  contraction  that  makes  our 
patients  sometimes  imagine  there  is  a  round  mass  coming 
up  the  gullet  into  the  larynx.  Later  on  I  have  come  across 
people  who,  having  been  born  in  wealth  and  never  wanting 
for  anything,  knew  nothing  of  that  problem  of  the  Rule  of 
Three :  A  young  man  is  to  a  crime  as  a  five  f ranc^^  piece  is 
to  the  unknown  quantity  x.  These  gilded  fools  would  say 
to  me: — 

11.  A  franc  is  worth  twenty  cents. 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  59 

"  *But  why  do  you  get  into  debt  ?  Why  ever  do  you 
contract  serious  obligations?' 

**They  remind  me  of  that  princess^  who^  on  hearing  that 
the  people  were  in  want  of  bread^  said: — 'Why  don't  they 
buy  sponge  cakes?'  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  one  of 
those  rich  men^  who  complains  that  I  ask  him  for  too  high 
a  fee  when  there  has  to  be  an  operation — yes^  I  should  like 
to  see  him  all  alone  in  Paris^  without  a  penny^  without  lug- 
gage^ without  a  friend^  without  credit^  and  forced  to  work 
his  five  fingers  to  the  bone  to  get  a  living.  What  would  he 
do?  Where  would  he  go  to  satisfy  his  hunger?  Bianchon, 
if  you  have  sometimes  seen  me  bitter  and  hard_,  it  was 
because  I  was  then  thinking  at  once  of  my  early  troubles 
and  of  the  heartlessness,  the  selfishness  of  which  I  have 
seen  a  thousand  instances  in  the  highest  circles;  or  else  I 
was  thinking  of  the  obstacles  that  hatred^  envy^  jealousy, 
calumny  have  raised  up  between  me  and  success.  In  Paris 
when  certain  people  see  you  ready  to  put  your  foot  in  the 
stirrup,  some  of  them  pull  at  the  skirt  of  your  coat,  others 
loosen  the  saddle  girth;  this  one  knocks  a  shoe  off  your 
horse,  that  one  steals  your  whip;  the  least  treacherous  of 
the  lot  is  the  one  you  see  coming  to  fire  a  pistol  at  you  point 
blank.  You  have  talent  enough,  my  dear  fellow,  to  know 
soon  enough  the  horrible,  the  unceasing  warfare  that  medi- 
ocrity carries  on  against  the  man  that  is  its  superior.  If 
one  evening  you  lose  twenty-five  louis,^^  next  morning  you 
will  be  accused  of  being  a  gambler,  and  your  best  friends 
will  say  that  you  have  lost  twenty-five  thousand  francs 
last  night.  If  you  have  a  headache,  you  will  be  set  down 
as  a  lunatic.  If  you  are  not  lively,  you  will  be  set  down  as 
unsociable.  If  to  oppose  this  battalion  of  pygmies,  you  call 
up  your  own  superior  powers,  your  best  friends  will  cry  out 
that  you  wish  to  devour  everything,  that  you  claim  to  lord  it 

12.  A  gold  coin  worth  $4.00. 


60  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

and  play  the  tyrant.  In  a  word^  your  good  qualities  will  be 
turned  into  defects^  your  defects  will  be  turned  into  vices^ 
and  your  virtues  will  be  crimes.  If  you  have  saved  some 
one^  it  will  be  said  that  you  have  killed  him.  If  your  patient 
reappears^  it  will  be  agreed  that  you  have  made  sure  of  the 
present  at  the  expense  of  his  future ;  though  he  is  not  dead^ 
he  will  die.  If  you  stumble^  it  will  be  a  fall!  Invent  any- 
thing whatever^  and  assert  your  rights^  and  you  will  be  a 
difficult  man  to  deal  with,  a  sharp  fellow^  who  does  not  like 
to  see  young  men  succeed.  So^  my  dear  friend,  if  I  do  not 
believe  in  God,  I  believe  even  less  in  man.  Do  you  not 
recognize  in  me  a  Desplein  that  is  quite  different  from  the 
Desplein  about  whom  every  one  speaks  ill?  But  we  need 
not  dig  into  that  heap  of  mud. 

''Well,  I  was  living  in  that  house,  I  had  to  work  to  be 
ready  to  pass  my  first  examination,  and  I  had  not  a  farthing. 
You  know  what  it  is !  I  had  come  to  one  of  those  crises  of 
utter  extremity  when  one  says  to  one's  self: — 'I  will  enlist!' 
I  had  one  hope.  I  was  expecting  from  my  native  place  a 
trunk  full  of  linen,  a  present  from  some  old  aunts,  who, 
knowing  nothing  of  Paris,  think  about  providing  one  with 
dress  shirts,  because  they  imagine  that  with  thirty  francs  a 
month  their  nephew  dines  on  ortolans.  The  trunk  arrived 
while  I  was  away  at  the  Medical  School.  It  had  cost  forty 
francs,  carriage  to  be  paid.  The  concierge  of  the  house,  a 
German  cobbler,  who  lived  in  a  loft,  had  paid  the  money 
and  held  the  trunk.  I  took  a  walk  in  the  Rue  des  Fosse- 
Saint-Germain-des-Pres  and  in  the  Rue  de  I'Ecole  de  Medi- 
cine, without  being  able  to  invent  a  stratagem  which  would 
put  the  trunk  in  my  possession,  without  my  being  obliged  j 
to  pay  down  the  forty  francs,  which  of  course  I  meant  to! 
pay  after  selling  the  linen.  My  stupidity  seemed  a  veryf 
fair  sign  to  me  that  I  was  fit  for  no  vocation  but  surgery. 
My  dear  friend,  delicately  organized  natures,  whose  powers 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  61 

are  exercised  in  some  higher  sphere,  are  wanting  in  that 
spirit  of  intrigue  which  is  fertile  in  resources  and  shifts. 
Genius  such  as  theirs  depends  on  chance.  They  do  not  seek 
out  things,  they  come  upon  them. 

**At  last,  after  dark,  I  went  back  to  the  house,  just  at 
the  moment  when  my  next  room  neighbor  was  coming  in, 
a  water-carrier  named  Bourgeat,  a  man  from  Saint-Flour 
in  Auvergne.  We  knew  each  other  in  the  way  in  which  two 
lodgers  come  to  know  each  other,  when  both  have  their  rooms 
on  the  same  landing,  and  they  can  hear  each  other  going  to 
bed,  coughing,  getting  up,  and  end  by  becoming  quite  used 
to  each  other.  My  neighbor  informed  me  that  the  landlord, 
to  whom  I  owed  three  months*  rent,  had  sent  me  notice  to 
quit.  I  must  clear  out  next  day.  He  himself  was  to  be 
evicted  on  account  of  his  business.  I  passed  the  most  sorrow- 
ful night  of  my  life. 

"Where  was  I  to  find  a  porter  to  remove  my  poor  belong- 
ings, my  books?  How  was  I  to  pay  the  porter  and  the 
concierge?  Where  could  I  go?  With  tears  in  my  eyes  I 
repeated  these  insoluble  questions,  as  lunatics  repeat  their 
catchwords.  I  fell  asleep.  For  the  wretched  there  is  a 
divine  sleep  full  of  beautiful  dreams.  Next  morning,  while 
I  was  eatipg  my  porringer  full  of  bread  crumbled  into  milk, 
Bourgeat  came  in,  and  said  to  me  in  bad  French: — 

**  'Mister  Student,  I'm  a  poor  man,  a  foundling  of  the 
hospice  of  Saint-Flour,  without  father  or  mother,  and  not 
rich  enough  to  marry.  You  are  not  much  better  off  for  rela- 
tions, or  better  provided  with  what  counts  ?  Now,  see  here, 
I  have  down  below  a  hand-cart  that  I  have  hired  at  a  penny 
an  hour.  All  our  things  can  be  packed  on  it.  If  you  agree, 
we  will  look  for  a  place  where  we  can  lodge  together,  since 
we  are  turned  out  of  this.  And  after  all  it's  not  the  earthly 
paradise.' 

**  *I  know  it  well,  my  good  Bourgeat^'  said  I  to  him^  'but 


62  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

I  am  in  a  great  difficulty.  There's  a  trunk  for  me  downstairs 
that  contains  linen  worth  a  hundred  crowns^  with  which  I 
could  pay  the  landlord  and  what  I  owe  to  the  concierge^  and 
I  have  not  got  as  much  as  a  hundred  sous/  ^^ 

"  'Bah !  I  have  some  bits  of  coin/  Bourgeat  answered  me 
joyfully^  showing  me  an  old  purse  of  greasy  leather.  'Keep 
your  linen.* 

"Bourgeat  paid  my  three  months^  and  his  own  rent^  and 
settled  with  the'  concierge.  Then  he  put  our  furniture  and 
my  box  of  linen  on  his  hand-cart  and  drew  it  through  the 
streets^  stopping  at  every  house  that  showed  a  'Lodgings  to 
^Let'  card.  As  for  me  I  would  go  upstairs  to  see  if  the 
place  to  let  would  suit  us.  At  noon  we  were  still  wandering 
about  the  Quartier  Latin  without  having  found  anything. 
The  rent  was  the  great  obstacle.  Bourgeat  proposed  to  me 
to  have  lunch  at  a  wine-shop^  at  the  door  of  which  we  left 
the  hand-cart.  Towards  evenings  in  the  Cour  de  Rohan  off 
the  Passage  du  Commerce^  I  found^  under  the  roof  at  the 
top  of  a  house^  two  rooms^  one  on  each  side  of  the  staircase. 
We  got  them  for  a  rent  of  sixty  francs  a  year  each.  So  there 
we  were  housed_,  myself  and  my  humble  friend. 

"We  dined  together.  Bourgeat^  who  earned  some  fifty 
sous  a  day^  had  saved  about  a  hundred  crowns.  .  .  .  He 
would  soon  be  in  a  position  to  realize  his  ambition  and  buy 
a  water-cart  and  a  horse.  When  he  found  out  how  I  was 
situated — and  he  wormed  out  my  secrets  with  a  depth  of 
cunning  and  at  the  same  time  with  a  kindly  good  nature  that 
still  moves  my  heart  today  when  I  think  of  it — he  renounced 
for  some  time  to  come  the  ambition  of  his  life.  Bourgeat 
had  been  a  street  seller  for  twenty-two  years.  He  sacrificed 
his  hundred  crowns  for  my  future."  ^ 

At  this  point  Desplein  took  a  firm  grip  of  Bianchon's  arm.  I 

"He  gave  me  the  money  required  for  my  examinations ! 

13.  A  sou  is  worth  one  cent. 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  63 

This  man  understood^  my  friend,  that  I  had  a  mission,  that 
the  needs  of  my  intelligence  came  before  his.  He  busied 
himself  with  me,  he  called  me  his  *little  one/  he  lent  me 
the  money  I  wanted  to  buy  books;  he  came  in  sometimes 
quite  quietly  to  watch  me  at  my  work;  finally  he  took  quite 
a  motherly  care  to  see  that  I  substituted  a  wholesome  and 
abundant  diet  for  the  bad  and  insufficient  fare  to  which  I 
had  been  condemned.  Bourgeat,  a  man  of  about  forty,  had 
the  features  of  a  burgess  of  the  middle  ages,  a  full  rounded 
forehead,  a  head  that  a  painter  might  have  posed  as  the 
model  for  a  Lycurgus.^^  The  poor  man  felt  his  heart  big 
with  affection  seeking  for  some  object.  He  had  never  been 
loved  by  anything  but  a  poodle,  that  had  died  a  short  time 
before,  and  about  which  he  was  always  talking  to  me,  asking 
if  by  any  possibility  the  church  would  consent  to  have 
prayers  for  its  soul.  His  dog,  he  said,  had  been  really  like 
a  Christian,  and  for  twelve  years  it  had  gone  to  church  with 
him,  without  ever  barking,  listening  to  the  organ  without 
so  much  as  opening  its  mouth,  and  remaining  crouched 
beside  him  with  a  look  that  made  one  think  it  was  praying 
with  him.  This  man  transferred  all  his  affection  to  me.  He 
took  me  up  as  a  lonely,  suffering  creature.  He  became  for 
me  like  a  most  watchful  mother,  the  most  delicately  thought- 
ful of  benefactors,  in  a  word  the  ideal  of  that  virtue  that 
rejoices  in  its  own  good  work.  When  I  met  him  in  the  street 
he  gave  me  an  intelligent  look,  full  of  a  nobility  that  you 
cannot  imagine;  he  would  then  assume  a  gait  like  that  of 
a  man  who  was  carrying  no  burden;  he  seemed  delighted 
at  seeing  me  in  good  health  and  well  dressed.  It  was  such 
[devoted  affection  as  one  finds  among  the  common  people, 
the  love  of  the  little  shop  girl,  raised  to  a  higher  level. 
Bourgeat  ran  my  errands.  He  woke  me  up  in  the  night 
at  the  appointed  hour.  He  trimmed  my  lamp,  scrubbed 
14.  A  Greek  law-giver. 


0^  FRENCH  SHORT  STOUlES 

our  landing.  He  was  a  good  servant  as  well  as  a  good 
father  to  me,  and  as  cleanly  in  his  work  as  an  English  maid. 
He  looked  after  our  housekeeping.  Like  Philopoemen^^  he 
sawed  up  our  firewood,  and  he  set  about  all  his  actions  with 
a  simplicity  in  performing  them  that  at  the  same  time  pre- 
served his  dignity,  for  he  seemed  to  realize  that  the  end  in 
view  ennobled  it  all. 

"When  I  left  this  fine  fellow  to  enter  the  Hotel  Dieu  as  a 
resident  student,  he  felt  a  kind  of  sorrowful  gloom  come 
over  him  at  the  thought  that  he  could  no  longer  live  with  me. 
But  he  consoled  himself  by  looking  forward  to  getting 
together  the  money  that  would  be  necessary  for  the  expenses 
of  my  final  examination,  and  he  made  me  promise  to  come 
to  see  him  on  all  my  holidays.  Bourgeat  was  proud  of  me. 
He  loved  me  for  my  own  sake  and  for  his  own.  If  you  look 
up  my  essay  for  the  doctorate  you  will  see  that  it  was  dedi- 
cated to  him.  In  the  last  year  of  my  indoor  course,  I  had 
made  enough  money  to  be  able  to  repay  all  that  I  owed  to 
this  worthy  Auvergnat,  by  buying  him  a  horse  and  a  wateT- 
cart.  He  was  exceedingly  angry  at  finding  that  I  was  thus 
depriving  myself  of  my  money,  and  nevertheless  he  was 
delighted  at  seeing  his  desires  realized.  He  laughed  and  he 
scolded  me.  He  looked  at  his  water-barrel  and  his  horse, 
and  he  wiped  away  a  tear  as  he  said  to  me : — 

"  'It's  a  pity !  Oh,  what  a  fine  water-cart !  You  have 
done  wrong!  .  .  .  The  horse  is  as  strong  as  if  he  came 
from  Auvergne !' 

**I  have  never  seen  anything  more  touching  than  this 
scene.  Bourgeat  absolutely  insisted  on  buying  for  me  that 
pocket-case  of  instruments  mounted  with  silver  that  you 
have  seen  in  my  study,  and  which  is  for  me  the  most  valued 

15.  A  Greek  general,  second  century  B.  C,  noted  for  his  simple  habits. 
Once,  arriving  at  a  house  to  which  he  had  been  invited  to  dinner,  he 
was  mistaken  for  one  of  his  own  retainers.  The  hostess,  being  late 
with  the  dinner,  requested  his  help  in  the  preparation.  He  threw  off 
his  cloak  and  began  to  cut  fire-wood.  When  his  host  arrived  and 
expressed  dismay  Philopoemen  explained  that  he  was  only  paying  the 
penalty  for  his  plainness. 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  65 

of  my  possessions.  Although  he  was  enraptured  with  my 
first  successes^  he  never  let  slip  a  word  or  a  gesture  that 
could  be  taken  to  mean,  *It  is  to  me  that  this  man's  success 
is  due !'  And  nevertheless,  but  for  him,  I  should  have  been 
killed  by  my  misery.  The  poor  man  broke  himself  down 
for  my  sake.  He  had  eaten  nothing  but  bread  seasoned  with 
garlic,  in  order  that  I  might  have  coffee  while  I  sat  up  at 
my  work.  He  fell  sick.  You  may  imagine  how  I  passed 
whole  nights  at  his  bedside.  I  pulled  him  through  it  the 
first  time,  but  two  years  after,  there  was  a  relapse,  and 
notwithstanding  the  most  assiduous  care,  notwithstanding 
the  greatest  efforts  of  science,  he  had  to  succumb.  No  king 
was  ever  cared  for  as  he  was.  Yes,  Bianchon,  to  snatch  this 
life  from  death  I  tried  unheard-of  things.  I  wanted  to  make 
him  live  long  enough  to  allow  him  to  see  the  results  of  his^ 
work,  to  realize  all  his  wishes,  to  satisfy  the  one  gratitude 
that  had  filled  my  heart,  to  extinguish  a  fire  that  burns  in 
me  even  now ! 

"Bourgeat,"  continued  Desplein,  aftei  a  pause,  with  evi- 
dent emotion,  "Bourgeat,  my  second  father  died  in  my  arms, 
leaving  me  all  he  possessed  by  a  will  which  he  had  made 
at  a  public  notary's,  and  which  bore  the  date  of  the  year 
when  we  went  to  lodge  in  the  Cour  de  Rohan.  He  had  the 
faith  of  a  simple  workman.  He  loved  the  Blessed  Virgin 
as  he  would  have  loved  his  mother.  Zealous  Catholic  as  he 
was,  he  had  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  my  own  lack  of 
religion.  When  he  was  in  danger  of  death  he  begged  me  to 
spare  nothing  to  obtain  the  help  of  the  Church  for  him. 
I  had  mass  said  for  him  every  day.  Often  in  the  night  he 
expressed  to  me  his  fears  for  his  future ;  he  was  afraid  that 
he  had  not  lived  a  holy  enough  life.  Poor  man!^  he  used  to 
work  from  morning  to  night.  Who  is  heaven  for  then,  if 
there  is  a  heaven  .f*     He  received  the  last  sacraments  like 

'  the  saint  that  he  was,  and  his  death  was  worthy  of  his  life. 

i      "I  v/as  the  only  one  who  followed  his  funeral.    When  I 

I-  3 


66  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

had  laid  my  one  benefactor  in  the  earth,  I  tried  to  find  out 
how  I  could  discharge  my  debt  of  gratitude  to  him.  I  knew 
that  he  had  neither  family  nor  friends,  neither  wife  nor 
children.  But  he  believed !  he  had  religious  convictions, 
and  had  I  any  right  to  dispute  them?  He  had  spoken  to 
me  timidly  of  masses  said  for  the  repose  of  the  dead;  he 
did  not  seek  to  impose  this  duty  on  me,  thinking  that  it  would 
be  like  asking  to  be  paid  for  his  services  to  me.  As  soon 
as  I  could  arrange  for  the  endowment,  I  gave  the  Saint- 
Sulpice  the  sum  necessary  to  have  four  masses  said  there 
each  year.  As  the  only  thing  that  I  could  offer  to  Bourgeat 
was  the  fulfilment  of  his  pious  wishes,  I  go  there  in  his 
name  on  the  day  the  mass  is  said  at  the  beginning  of  each 
quarter  of  the  year,  and  say  the  prayers  for  him  that  he 
.wished  for.  I  say  them  in  the  good  faith  of  one  who 
doubts  :--*My  God,  if  there  is  a  sphere  where  after  their 
death  you  place  those  who  have  been  perfect,  think  of  good 
Bourgeat;  and  if  he  has  still  anything  to  suffer,  lay  these 
sufferings  on  me,  so  that  he  may  enter  the  sooner  into  what 
they  call  Paradise!'  This,  my  dear  friend,  is  all  that  a 
man,  who  holds  my  opinions,  can  allow  himself.  God  must 
be  good-hearted,  and  He  will  not  take  it  ill  on  my  part. 
But  I  swear  to  you,  I  would  give  my  fortune  for  the  sake  of 
finding  the  faith  of  Bourgeat  coming  into  my  brain.'* 

Bianchon,  who  attended  Desplein  in  his  last  illness,  does 
not  venture  to  affirm,  even  now,  that  the  famous  surgeon 
died  an  atheist.  Will  not  those  who  believe  take  pleasure  in 
the  thought  that  perhaps  the  poor  Auvergnat  came  to  open 
for  him  the  gate  of  Heaven,  as  he  had  already  opened  for 
him  the  portals  of  that  temple  on  earth,  on  the  fa9ade  of 
which  one  reads  the  words:— ^m^  grands  hommes  la  Patrie 
reconnaissante?  ^^ 

to  Us  Jr^eat  men.-*'''''  ''''  ^^^  Pantheon  in  Paris  :     "A  grateful  country 


COLONEL  CHABERT^ 

By  HONORfi  DE  BALZAC 

"Hullo  !    There  is  that  old  Box-coat  again !" 

This  exclamation  was  made  by  a  lawyer's  clerk  of  the 
class  called  in  French  offices  a  gutter-jumper — a  messenger 
in  fact — who  at  this  moment  was  eating  a  piece  of  dry  bread 
with  a  hearty  appetite.  He  pulled  off  a  morsel  of  crumb 
to  make  into  a  bullet^  and  fired  it  gleefully  through  the  open 
pane  of  the  window  against  which  he  was  leaning.  The  pel- 
let, well  aimed,  rebounded  almost  as  high  as  the  window, 
after  hitting  the  hat  of  a  stranger  who  was  crossing  the 
courtyard  of  a  house  in  the  Rue  Vivie^nne,  where  dwelt 
Maitre  Derville,  attorney-at-law. 

"Come,  Simonnin,  don't  play  tricks  on  people,  or  I  will 
turn  you  out  of  doors.  However  poor  a  client  may  be,  he  is 
still  a  man,  hang  it  all !"  said  the  head  clerk,  pausing  in  the 
addition  of  a  bill  of  costs. 

The  lawyer's  messenger  is  commonly,  as  was  Simonnin,  a 
lad  of  thirteen  or  fourteen,  who,  in  every  office,  is  under 
the  special  jurisdiction  of  the  managing  clerk,  whose  errands 
and  billets-doux  keep  him  employed  on  his  way  to  carry  writs 
to  the  bailiffs  and  petitions  to  the  Courts.  He  is  akin  to  the 
street  boy  in  his  habits,  and  to  the  pettifogger  by  fate.  The 
boy  is  almost  always  ruthles's,  unbroken,  unmanageable,  a 
ribald  rhymester,  impudent,  greedy,  and  idle.  And  yet, 
almost  all  these  clerklings  have  an  old  mother  lodging  on 
some  fifth  floor  with  whom  they  share  their  pittance  of  thirty 
or  forty  francs^  a  month. 

1.  Translated  by  Mrs.  Clara  Bell. 

2.  A  franc   is  worth  twenty  cents. 

67 


58  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

**If  he  is  a  man^  why  do  you  call  him  old  Box-coat?"  asked 
Simonnin^  with  the  air  of  a  schoolboy  who  has  caught  out 
his  master. 

And  he  went  on  eating  his  bread  and  cheese,  leaning  his 
shoulder  against  the  window  jamb;  for  he  rested  standing 
like  a  cab-horse,  one  of  his  legs  raised  and  propped  against 
the  other,  on  the  toe  of  his  shoe. 

"What  trick  can  we  play  that  cove?"  said  the  third  clerk, 
whose  name  was  Godeschal,  in  a  low  voice,  pausing  in  the 
middle  of  a  discourse  he  was  extemporizing  in  an  appeal 
engrossed  by  the  fourth  clerk,  of  which  copies  were  being 
made  by  two  neophytes  from  the  provinces. 

Then  he  went  on  improvising — 

"But,  in  Ms  noble  and  beneficent  wisdom,  his  Majesty, 
Louis  the  Eighteenth — (write  it  at  full  length,  heh ! 
Desroches  the  learned — you,  as  you  engross  it!) — when  he 
resumed  the  reins  of  Government,  understood — (what  did 
that  old  nincompoop  ever  understand?) — the  high  mission 
to  which  he  had  been  called  by  Divine  Providence! — (a  note 
of  admiration  and  six  stops.  They  are  pious  enough  at  the 
Courts  to  let  us  put  six) — and  his  first  thought,  as  is  proved 
by  the  date  of  the  order  hereinafter  designated,  was  to  repair 
the  misfortunes  caused  by  the  terrible  and  sad  disasters  of 
the  revolutionary  times,  by  restoring  to  his  numerous  and 
faithful  adherents — ("numerous"  is  flattering,  and  ought  to 
please  the  Bench) — all  their  unsold  estates,  whether  within 
our  realm,  or  in  conquered  or  acquired  territory,  or  in  the 
endowments  of  public  institutions,  for  we  are,  and  proclaim 
ourselves  competent  to  declare,  that  this  is  the  spirit  and 
meaning  of  the  famous,  truly  loyal  order  given  in — Stop," 
said  Godeschal  to  the  three  copying  clerks,  "that  rascally 
sentence  brings  me  to  the  end  of  my  page. — Well,"  he  went 
on,  wetting  the  back  fold  of  the  sheet  with  his  tongue,  so 
as   to   be   able   to    fold   back    the   page    of    thick   stamped 


COLONEL  CHABERT  69 

paper^  "well,  if  you  want  to  play  him  a  trick,  tell  him 
that  the  master  can  only  see  his  clients  between  two  and 
three  in  the  morning;  we  shall  see  if  he  comes,  the  old 
ruffian  V 

And  Godeschal  took  up  the  sentence  he  was  dictating — 
''given  in — Are  you  ready?" 

"Yes/*  cried  the  three  writers. 

It  all  went  on  together,  the  appeal,  the  gossip,  and  the 
conspiracy. 

"Given  in — Here,  Daddy  Boucard,  what  is  the  date  of 
the  order  ?  We  must  dot  our  i's  and  cross  our  fs,  by  Jingo ! 
It  helps  to  fill  the  pages." 

"By  Jingo  I"  repeated  one  of  the  copying  clerks  before 
Boucard,  the  head  clerk,  could  reply. 

"What!  have  you  written  by  Jingo?"  cried  Godeschal, 
looking  at  one  of  the  novices,  with  an  expression  at  once 
stern  and  humorous. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Desroches,  the  fourth  clerk,  leaning 
across  his  neighbor's  copy,  "he  has  written  We  must  dot  our 
i's  and  spelt  it  by  Gingo!" 

All  the  clerks  shouted  with  laughter. 

"Why!  Monsieur  Hure,  you  take  *By  Jingo'  for  a  law 
term,  and  you  sdy  you  come  from  Mortagne!"^  exclaimed 
Simonnin. 

"Scratch  it  cleanly  out,"  said  the  head  clerk.  "If  the 
judge,  whose  business  it  is  to  tax  the  bill,  were  to  see  such 
things  he  would  say  you  were  laughing  at  the  whole  boiling. 
You  would  hear  of  it  from  the  chief !  Come,  no  more  of  this 
nonsense.  Monsieur  Hure !  A  Norman  ought  not  to  write  out 
an  appeal  without  thought.  It  is  the  'Shoulder  arms  !'  of  the 
law." 

"Given  in — in?"  asked  Godeschal. — "Tell  me  when, 
Boucard." 

3.  A  city  in  northern  France  noted  for  its  legal  institutions. 


70  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"June^  1814/'  replied  the  head  clerk,  without  looking  u'p' 
from  his  work. 

A  knock  at  the  office  door  interrupted  the  circumlocutions 
of  the  prolix  document.  Five  clerks  with  rows  of  hungry 
teeth,  bright,  mocking  eyes,  and  curly  heads,  lifted  their 
noses  towards  the  door,  after  crying  all  together  in  a  singing 
tone,  **Come  in  V 

Boucard  kept  his  face  buried  in  a  pile  of  papers — 
broutilles  (odds  and  ends)  in  French  law  jargon — and  went 
on  drawing  out  the  bill  of  costs  on  which  he  was  busy. 

The  office  was  a  large  room  furnished  with  the  traditional 
stool  which  is  to  be  seen  in  all  these  dens  of  law-quibbling. 
The  stove  pipe  crossed  the  room  diagonally  to  the  chimney 
of  a  bricked-up  fireplace;  on  the  marble  chimney-piece  were 
several  chunks  of  bread,  triangles  of  Brie  cheese,  pork  cut- 
*  lets,  glasses,  bottles,  and  the  head  clerk's  cup  of  chocolate. 
The  smell  of  these  dainties  blended  completely  with  that  of 
the  immoderately  overheated  stove  and  the  odor  peculiar  to 
offices  and  old  papers.  The  floor  was  covered  with  mud  and 
snow,  brought  in  by  the  clerks.  Near  the  window  stood  the 
desk  with  a  revolving  lid,  where  the  head  clerk  worked,  and 
against  the  back  of  it  was  the  second  clerk's  table.  The 
second  clerk  was  at  this  moment  in  Court.  It  was  between 
eight  and  nine  in  the  morning. 

The  only  decoration  of  the  office  consisted  in  huge  yellow 
posters,  announcing  seizures  of  real  estate,  sales,  settle- 
ments under  trust,  final  or  interim  judgments, — all  the  glory 
of  a  lawyer's  office.  Behind  the  head  clerk  was  an  enormous 
stack  of  pigeon-holes  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  room, 
of  which  each  division  was  crammed  with  bundles  of  papers 
with  an  infinite  number  of  tickets  hanging  from  them  at  the 
ends  of  red  tape,  which  give  a  peculiar  physiognomy  to  law- 
papers.  The  lower  rows  were  filled  with  cardboard  boxes, 
yellow  with  use,  on  which  might  be  read  the  names  of  the 


COLONEL  CHABERT  71 

more  important  clients  whose  cases  were  juicily  stewing  at 
this  present  time.  The  dirty  window-panes  admitted  but 
little  daylight.  Indeed,  there  are  very  few  offices  in  Paris 
wJiere  it  is  possible  to  write  without  lamplight  before  ten 
in  the  morning  in  the  month  of  February,  for  they  are  all 
left  to  very  natural  neglect;  everyone  comes  and  no  one 
stays;  no  one  has  any  personal  interest  in  a  scene  of  mere 
routine — neither  the  attorney,  nor  the  counsel,  nor  the 
clerks,  trouble  themselves  about  the  appearance  of  a  place 
which,  to  the  youths,  is  a  schoolroom;  to  the  clients,  a  pas- 
sage; to  the  chief,  a  laboratory.  The  greasy  furniture  is 
handed  down  to  successive  owners  with  such  scrupulous  care, 
that  in  some  offices  may  still  be  seen  boxes  of  remainders, 
machines  for  twisting  parchment  gut,  and  bags  left  by  the 
prosecuting  parties  of  the  Chatelet  (abbreviated  to  Chlet) — 
a  Court  which,  under  the  old  order  of  things,  represented  the 
present  Court  of  First  Instance  (or  County  Court). 

So  in  this  dark  office,  thick  with  dust,  there  was,  as  in  all 
its  fellows,  something  repulsive  to  the  clients — something 
which  made  it  one  of  the  most  hideous  monstrosities  of  Paris. 
Nay,  were  it  not  for  the  moldy  sacristies  where  prayers  are 
weighed  out  and  paid  for  like  groceries  and  for  the  old- 
clothes  shops,  where  flutter  the  rags  that  blight  all  the 
illusions  of  life  by  showing  us  the  last  end  of  all  our  festivi- 
ties— an  attorney's  office  would  be,  of  all  social  marts,  the 
most  loathsome.  But  we  might  say  the  same  of  the  gam- 
bling-hell, of  the  Law  Court,  of  the  lottery  office,  of  the 
brothel. 

But  why?  In  these  places,  perhaps,  the  drama  being 
played  in  a  man's  soul  makes  him  indifferent  to  accessories, 
which  would  also  account  for  the  single-mindedness  of  great 
thinkers  and  men  of  great  ambitions. 

"Where  is  my  penknife  ?" 

"I  am  eating  my  breakfast.'* 


72  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"You  go  and  be  hanged!  here  is  a  blot  on  the  copy." 

"Silence^  gentlemen  f" 

These  various  exclamations  were  uttered  simultaneously 
at  the  moment  when  the  old  client  shut  the  door  with  the 
sort  of  humility  which  disfigures  the  movements  of  a  man 
down  on  his  luck.  The  stranger  tried  to  smile^  but  the 
muscles  of  his  face  relaxed  as  he  vainly  looked  for  some 
symptoms  of  amenity  on  the  inexorably  indifferent  faces  of 
the  six  clerks.  Accustomed,  no  doubt,  to  gauge  men,  he  very 
politely  addressed  the  gutter- j  umper,  hoping  to  get  a  civil 
answer  from  this  boy  of  all  work. 

**Monsieur,  is  your  master  at  home?" 

The  pert  messenger  made  no  reply,  but  patted  his  ear  with 
the  fingers  of  his  left  hand,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I  am  deaf." 

**What  do  you  want,  sir.^^"  asked  Godeschal,  swallowing 
as  he  spoke  a  mouthful  of  bread  big  enough  to  charge  a 
four-pounder,  flourishing  his  knife  and  crossing  his  legs, 
throwing  up  one  foot^in  the  air  to  the  level  of  his  eyes. 

**This  is  the  fifth  time  I  have  called,"  replied  the  victim. 
"I  wish  to  speak  to  M.  Derville." 

"On  business.^" 

"Yes,  but  I  can  explain  it  to  no  one  but " 

"M.  Derville  is  in  bed;  if  you  want  to  consult  him  on 
some  difficulty,  he  does  no  serious  work  till  midnight.  But 
if  you  will  lay  the  case  before  us,  we  could  help  you  just  as 
well  as  he  can  to " 

The  stranger  was  unmoved ;  he  looked  timidly  about  him, 
like  a  dog  who  has  got  into  a  strange  kitchen  and  expects  a 
kick.  By  grace  of  their  profession,  lawyers'  clerks  have  no 
fear  of  thieves;  they  did  not  suspect  the  owner  of  the  box- 
coat,  and  left  him  to  study  the  place,  where  he  looked  in 
vain  for  a  chair  to  sit  on,  for  he  was  evidently  tired.  Attor- 
neys, on  principle,  do  not  have  many  chairs  in  their  offices. 
The  inferior  client,  being  kept  waiting  on  his  feet,  goes  away 


COLONEL  CHABERT  73 

grumbling,  but  then  he  does  not  waste  time,  which,  as  an 
old  lawyer  once  said,  is  not  allowed  for  when  the  bill  is  taxed. 

"Monsieur,'*  said  the  old  man,  "as  I  have  already  told  you, 
I  can  not  explain  my  business  to  any  one  but  M.  Derville.  I 
will  wait  till  he  is  up." 

Boucard  had  finished  his  bill.  He  smelt  the  fragrance 
of  his  chocolate,  rose  from  his  cane  arm-chair,  went  to  the 
chimney-piece,  looked  the  old  man  from  head  to  foot,  stared 
at  his  coat,  and  made  an  indescribable  grimace.  He  prob- 
ably reflected  that  whichever  way  this  client  might  be  wrung, 
it  would  be  impossible  to  squeeze  out  a  centime,*  so  he  put  in 
a  few  brief  words  to  rid  the  office  of  a  bad  customer. 

"It  is  the  truth,  monsieur.  The  chief  only  works  at  night. 
If  your  business  is  important,  I  recommend  you  to  return 
at  one  in  the  morning."  The  stranger  looked  at  the  head 
clerk  with  a  bewildered  expression,  and  remained  motionless 
for  a  moment.  The  clerks,  accustomed  to  every  change  of 
countenance,  and  the  odd  whimsicalities  to  which  indecision 
or  absence  of  mind  gives  rise  in  "parties,"  went  on  eating, 
making  as  much  noise  with  their  jaws  as  horses  over  a  man- 
ger, and  paying  no  further  heed  to  the  old  man. 

"I  will  come  again  tonight,"  said  the  stranger  at  length, 
with  the  tenacious  desire,  peculiar  to  the  unfortunate,  to 
catch  humanity  at  fault. 

The  only  irony  allowed  to  poverty  is  to  drive  Justice  and 
Benevolence  to  unjust  denials.  When  a  poor  wretch  has  con- 
victed Society  of  falsehood,  he  throws  himself  more  eagerly 
on  the  mercy  of  God. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  cracked  pot?"  said 
Simonnin,  without  waiting  till  the  old  man  had  shut  the 
door. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  had  been  buried  and  dug  up  again," 
said  a  clerk. 

4.  A  copper  coin  worth  a  fifth  of  a  cent.     It  is  no  longer  current. 


74  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"He  is  some  Colonel  who  wants  his  arrears  of  pay/*  said 
the  head  clerk. 

"No,  he  is  a  retired  concierge/'  said  Godeschal. 

"I  bet  you  he  is  a  nobleman/'  cried  Boucard. 

"I  bet  you  he  has  been  a  porter/'  retorted  Godeschal. 
"Only  porters  are  gifted  by  nature  with  shabby  box-coats, 
as  worn  and  greasy  and  frayed  as  that  old  body's.  And 
did  you  see  his  trodden-down  boots  that  let  the  water  in, 
and  his. stock  which  serves  for  a  shirt?  He  has  slept  in  a 
dry  arch." 

"He  may  be  of  noble  birth,  and  yet  have  pulled  the  door- 
latch,"  cried  Desroches.     "It  has  been  known !" 

"No,"  Boucard  insisted,  in  the  midst  of  laughter,  "I  main- 
tain that  he  was  a  brewer  in  1789,  and  a  Colonel  in  the  time 
of  the  Republic." 

"I  bet  theater  tickets  round  that  he  never  was  a  soldier," 
said  Godeschal. 

"Done  with  you,"  answered  Boucard. 

"Monsieur !  Monsieur !"  shouted  the  little  messenger,  open- 
ing the  window. 

"What  are  you  at  now,  Simonnin  ?"  asked  Boucard. 

"I  am  calling  him  that  you  may  ask  him  whether  he  is 
a  Colonel  or  a  porter;  he  must  know." 

All  the  clerks  laughed.  As  to  the  old  man,  he  was  already 
coming  upstairs  again. 

"What  can  we  say  to  him.^"  cried  Godeschal. 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  replied  Boucard. 

The  poor  man  came  in  nervously,  his  eyes  cast  down, 
perhaps  not  to  betray  how  hungry  he  was  by  looking  too 
greedily  at  the  eatables. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Boucard,  "will  you  have  the  kindness  to 
leave  your  name,  so  that  M.  Derville  may  know ** 

"Chabert." 


COLONEL  CHABERT  75 

"The  Colonel  who  was  killed  at  Eylau?"^  asked  Hure, 
who^  having  so  far  said  nothings  was  jealous  of  adding  a  jest 
to  all  the  others. 

"The  same,  Monsieur/'  replied  the  good  man,  with  antique 
simplicity.     And  he  went  away. 

"Whew!" 

"Done  brown  V* 

"Poof!" 

"Oh!" 

"Ah!" 

"Boum!" 

"The  old  rogue-!" 

"Ting-a-ring-ting !" 

"Sold  again !" 

"Monsieur  Desroches,  you  are  going  to  the  play  without 
paying/'  said  Hure  to  the  fourth  clerk,  giving  him  a  slap 
on  the  shoulder  that  might  have  killed  a  rhinoceros. 

There  was  a  storm  of  cat-calls,  cries,  and  exclamations, 
which  all  the  onomatopeia  of  the  language  would  fail  to  rep- 
resent. 

"Which  theater  shall  we  go  to?" 

"To  the  opera,"  cried  the  head  clerk. 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Godeschal,  "I  never  mentioned 
which  theater.  I  might,  if  I  chose,  take  you  to  see  Madame 
Saqui." 

"Madame  Saqui  is  not  the  play." 

"What  is  a  play.^*"  replied  Godeschal.  "First,  we  must 
define  the  point  of  fact.  What  did  I  bet,  gentlemen  ?  A 
play.  What  is  a  play?  A  spectacle.  What  is  a  spectacle? 
Something  to  be  seen " 

"But  on  that  principle  you  would  pay  your  bet  by  taking 

5.  Eylau  is  a  town  in  East  Prussia.  An  indecisive  battle  was  fought 
here,  Feb.  8,  1808,  between  the  French  under  Napoleon, .  and  the  Ger- 
mans and  Russians. 


76  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

us  to  see  the  water  run  under  the  Pont  Neuf !"  cried  Simon- 
nin^  interrupting  him. 

"To  be  seen  for  money^'*  Godeschal  added. 

"But  a  great  many  things  are  to  be  seen  for  money  that 
.  are  not  plays.     The  definition  is  defective/'  said  Desroches. 

"But  do  listen  to  me  V* 

"You  are  talking  nonsense,  my  dear  boy/*  said  Boucard. 

"Is  Curtius*  a  play  ?**  said  Godeschal. 

"No/'  said  the  head  clerk^  "it  is  a  collection  of  figures — 
but  it  is  a  spectacle." 

"I  bet  you  a  hundred  francs  to  a  sou/'^  Godeschal  resumed, 
"that  Curtius*  Waxworks  forms  such  a  fehow  as  might  be 
called  a  play  or  theater.  It  contains  a  thing  to  be  seen 
at  various  prices,  according  to  the  place  you  choose  to 
occupy." 

"And  so  on,  and  so  forth!"  said  Simonnin. 

"You  mind  I  don't  box  your  ears !"  said  Godeschal. 

The  clerks  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

"Besides,  it  is  not  proved  that  that  old  ape  was  not  mak- 
ing game  of  us,"  he  said,  dropping  his  argument,  which  was 
drowned  in  the  laughter  of  the  other  clerks.  "On  my  honor, 
Colonel  Chabert  is  really  and  truly  dead.  His  wife  is  mar- 
ried again  to  Comte  Ferraud,  Councillor  of  State.  Madame 
Ferraud  is  one  of  our  clients." 

"Come,  the  case  is  remanded  till  tomorrow,"  said  Boucard. 
"To  work,  gentlemen.  The  deuce  is  in  it ;  we  get  nothing  done 
here.  Finish  copying  that  appeal;  it  must  be  handed  in 
before  the  sitting  of  the  Fourth  Chamber,  judgment  is  to  be 
given  today.     Come,  on  you  go !" 

"If  he  really  were  Colonel  Chabert,  would  not  that  impu- 
dent rascal  Simonnin  have  felt  the  leather  of  his  boot  in  the 
right  place  when  he  pretended  to  be  deaf?"  said  Desroches, 
regarding  this  remark  as  more  conclusive  than  Godeschal's. 

6.  pne  cent. 


COLONEL  CHABERT  77 

"Since  nothing  is  settled/*  said  Boucard,  "let  us  all  agree 
to  go  to  the  upper  boxes  of  the  Fran9ais^  and  see  Talma  in 
Nero.    Simonnin  may  go  to  the  pit." 

And  thereupon  the  head  clerk  sat  down  at  his  table^  and 
the  others  followed  his  example. 

''Given  in  June  eighteen  hundred  and  fourteen  (in 
words)/'  said  Godeschal.     "Ready .f*" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  two  copying  clerks  and  the  engrosser, 
whose  pens  forthwith  began  to  creak  over  the  stamped  paper, 
making  as  much  noise  in  the  office  as  a  hundred  cockchafers 
imprisoned  by  schoolboys  in  paper  cages. 

''And  we  hope  that  my  lords  on  the  Bench/'  the  extempo- 
rizing clerk  went  on.  "Stop !  I  must  read  my  sentence 
through  again.     I  do  not  understand  it  myself." 

"Forty-six  (that  must  often  happen)  and  three  forty- 
nines/'  said  Boucard. 

"We  hope/'  Godeschal  began  again,  after  reading  all 
through  the  documents,  "that  my  lords  on  the  Bench  will 
not  be  less  magnanimous  than  the  august  author  of  the  decree, 
and  that  they  will  do  justice  against  the  miserable  claims  of 
the  acting  committee  of  the  chief  Board  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  by  interpreting  the  law  in  the  wide  sense  we  have 
here  set  forth " 

"Monsieur  Godeschal,  wouldn't  you  like  a  glass  of  water  .^" 
said  the  little  messenger. 

"That  imp  of  a  boy !"  said  Boucard.  "Here,  get  on  your 
double-soled  shanks-mare,  take  this  packet,  and  spin  off  to 
the  Invalides." 

"Here  set  forth/'  Godeschal  went  on.  "Add  in  the  inter- 
est of  Madame  la  Vicomtesse  (at  full  length)  de  Grandlieu/' 

"What"  cried  the  chief,  "are  you  thinking  of  drawing  up 
an  appeal  in  the  case  of  Vicomtesse  de  Grandlieu  against 
the  Legion  of  Honor — a  case  for  the  office  to  stand  or  fall 

7.  The  foremost  theater  in  France. 


78  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

by  ?  You  are  something  like  an  ass !  Have  the  goodness 
to  put  aside  your  copies  and  your  notes;  you  may  keep  all 
that  for  the  case  of  Navarreins  against  the  Hospitals.  It 
is  late;  I  will  draw  up  a  little  petition  myself^  with  a  due 
allowance  of  ^inasmuch/  and  go  to  the  Courts  myself/' 

This  scene  is  typical  of  the  thousand  delights  which^  when 
we  look  back  on  our  youth^  make  us  say^  ** Those  were  good 
times." 

At  about  one  in  the  morning  Colonel  Chabert^  self-styled, 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Maitre  Derville,  attorney  to  the  Court 
of  First  Instance  in  the  Department  of  the  Seine.  The  por- 
ter told  him  that  Monsieur  Derville  had  not  yet  come  in. 
The  old  man  said  he  had  an  appointment,  and  was  shown 
upstairs  to  the  rooms  occupied  by  the  famous  lawyer,  who, 
notwithstanding  his  youth,  was  considered  to  have  one  of 
the  longest  heads  in  Paris. 

Having  rung,  the  distrustful  applicant  was  not  a  little 
astonished  at  finding  the  head  clerk  busily  arranging  in  a 
convenient  order  on  his  master's  dining-room  table  the  papers 
relating  to  the  cases  to  be  tried  on  the  morrow.  The  clerk, 
not  less  astonished,  bowed  to  the  Colonel  and  begged  him  to 
take  a  seat,  which  the  client  did. 

"On  my  word.  Monsieur,  I  thought  you  were  joking  yes- 
terday when  you  named  such  an  hour  for  an  interview,*'  said 
the  old  man,  with  the  forced  mirth  of  a  ruined  man,  who 
does  his  best  to  smile. 

"The  clerks  were  joking,  but  they  were  speaking  the  truth 
too,"  replied  the  man,  going  on  with  his  work.  "M.  Derville 
chooses  this  hour  for  studying  his  cases,  taking  stock  of 
their  possibilities,  arranging  how  to  conduct  them,  deciding 
on  the  line  of  defense.  His  prodigious  intellect  is  freer  at 
this  hour — the  only  time  when  he  can  have  the  silence  and 
quiet  needed  for  the  conception  of  good  ideas.     Since  he 


COLONEL  CHABERT  79 

entered  the  profession,  you  are  the  third  person  to  come  to 
him  for  a  consultation  at  this  midnight  hour.  After  coming 
in  the  chief  will  discuss  each  case,  read  everything,  spend 
four  or  ^ve  hours  perhaps  over  the  business,  then  he  will 
ring  for  me  and  explain  to  me  his  intentions.  In  the  morn- 
ing from  ten  till  two  he  hears  what  his  clients  have  to  say, 
then  he  spends  the  rest  of  his  day  in  appointments.  In  the 
evening  he  goes  into  society  to  keep  up  his  connections.  So 
he  has  only  the  night  for  undermining  his  cases,  ransacking 
the  arsenal  of  the  Code,  and  laying  his  plan  of  battle.  He  is 
determined  never  to  lose  a  case;  he  loves  his  art.  He  will 
not  undertake  every  case,  as  his  brethren  do.  That  is  his 
life,  an  exceptionally  active  one.  And  he  makes  a  great 
deal  of  money." 

As  he  listened  to  this  explanation,  the  old  man  sat  silent, 
and  his  strange  face  assumed  an  expression  so  bereft  of  intel- 
ligence, that  the  clerk,  after  looking  at  him,  thought  no  more 
about  him. 

A  few  minutes  later  Derville  came  in,  in  evening  dress ; 
his  head  clerk  opened  the  door  to  him,  and  went  back  to  finish 
arranging  the  papers.  The  young  lawyer  paused  for  a 
moment  in  amazement  on  seeing  in  the  dim  light  the  strange 
client  who  awaited  him.  Colonel  Chabert  was  as  absolutely 
immovable  as  one  of  the  wax  figures  in  Curtius'  collection 
to  which  Godeschal  had  proposed  to  treat  his  fellow-clerks. 
This  quiescence  would  not  have  been  a  subject  foi-  aston- 
ishment if  it  had  not  completed  the  supernatural  aspect  of 
the  man's  whole  person.  The  old  soldier  was  dry  and  lean. 
His  forehead,  intentionally  hidden  under  a  smoothly  combed 
wig,  gave  him  a  look  of  mystery.  His  eyes  seemed  shrouded 
in  a  transparent  film;  you  would  have  compared  them  to 
dingy  mother-of-pearl  with  a  blue  iridescence  changing  in 
the  gleam  of  the  wax-lights.  His  face,  pale,  livid,  and  as  thin 
as  a  knife,  if  I  may  use  such  a  vulgar  expression,  was  as 


80  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

the  face  of  the  dead.  Round  his  neck  was  a  tight  black  silk' 
stock. 

Below  the  dark  line  of  this  rag  the  body  was  so  com- 
pletely hidden  in  shadow  that  a  man  of  imagination  might 
have  supposed  the  old  head  was  due  to  some  chance  play  of 
light  and  shade^  or  have  taken  it  for  a  portrait  by  Rembrandt/ 
without  a  frame.  The  brim  of  the  hat  which  covered  the  old 
man's  brow  cast  a  black  line  of  shadow  on  the  upper  part  of 
the  face.  This  grotesque  effect^  though  natural^  threw  into 
relief  by  contrast  the  white  furrows^  the  cold  wrinkles,  the 
colorless  tone  of  the  corpse-like  countenance.  And  the  ab- 
sence of  all  movement  in  the  figure,  of  all  fire  in  the  eye,  were 
in  harmony  with  a  certain  look  of  melancholy  madness,  and 
the  deteriorating  symptoms  characteristic  of  senility,  giving 
the  face  an  indescribably  ill-starred  look  which  no  human 
words  could  render. 

But  an  observer,  especially  a  lawyer,  could  also  have  read 
in  this  stricken  man  the  signs  of  deep  sorrow,  the  traces  of 
grief  which  had  worn  into  this  face,  as  drops  of  water  from 
the  sky  falling  on  fine  marble  at  last  destroy  its  beauty.  A 
physician,  an  author,  or  a  judge  might  have  discerned  a 
whole  drama  at  the  sight  of  its  sublime  horror,  while  the  least 
charm  was  its  resemblance  to  the  grotesques  which  artists 
amuse  themselves  by  sketching  on  a  corner  of  the  litho- 
graphic stone  while  chatting  with  a  friend. 

On  seeing  the  attorney,  the  stranger  started,  with  the 
convulsive  thrill  that  comes  over  a  poet  when  a  sudden  noise 
rouses  him  from  a  fruitful  reverie  in  silence  and  at  night. 
The  old  man  hastily  removed  his  hat  and  rose  to  bow  to  the 
young  man ;  the  leather  lining  of  his  hat  was  doubtless  very 
greasy;  his  wig  stuck  to  it  without  his  noticing  it,  and  left 
his  head  bare,  showing  his  skull  horribly  disfigured  by  a 
scar  beginning  at  the  nape  of  the  neck  and  ending  over  the 

8.  The  celebrated  Dutch  portrait  painter. 


COLONEL  CHABERT  81 

right  eye,  a  prominent  seam  all  across  his  head.  The  sud- 
den removal  of  the  dirty  wig  which  the  poor  man  wore  to  hide 
this  gash  gave  the  two  lawyers  no  inclination  to  laugh^  so 
horrible  to  behold  was  this  riven  skull.  The  first  idea  sug- 
gested by  the  sight  of  this  old  wound  was^  '^His  intelligence 
must  have  escaped  through  that  cut.'* 

**If  this  is  not  Colonel  Chabert^  he  is  some  thorough-going 
trooper  I"  thought  Boucard. 

**Monsieur/'  said  Derville^  "to  whom  have  I  the  honor  of 
speaking?" 

"To  Colonel  Chabert." 

"Which.?" 

"He  who  was  killed  at  Eylau/'  replied  the  old  man. 

On  hearing  this  strange  speech^  the  lawyer  and  his  clerk 
glanced  at  esrch  other^  as  much  as  to  say,  "He  is  mad." 

"Monsieur,"  the  Colonel  went  on,  "I  wish  to  confide  to  you 
the  secret  of  my  position." 

A  thing  well  worthy  of  note  is  the  natural  intrepidity  of 
lawyers.  Whether  from  the  habit  of  receiving  a  great  many 
persons,  or  from  the  deep  sense  of  the  protection  conferred 
on  them  by  the  law,  or  from  confidence  in  their  mission,  they 
enter  everywhere,  fearing  nothing,  like  priests  and  physi- 
cians.    Derville  signed  to  Boucard,  who  vanished. 

"During  the  day,  sir,"  said  the  attorney,  "I  am  not  so 
miserly  of  my  time,  but  at  night  every  minute  is  precious. 
So  be  brief  and  concise.  Go  to  the  facts  without  digression. 
I  will  ask  for  any  explanations  I  may  consider  necessary. 
Speak." 

Having  bid  his  strange  client  to  be  seated,  the  young  man 
sat  down  at  the  table ;  but  while  he  gave  his  attention  to  the 
deceased  Colonel,  he  turned  over  the  bundles  of  papers. 

"You  know,  perhaps,"  said  the  dead  man,  "that  I  com- 
manded a  cavalry  regiment  at  Eylau.     I  was  of  important 


82  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

service  to  the  success  of  Murat's^  famous  charge  which  de- 
cided the  victory.  Unhappily  for  me^  my  death  is  a  historical 
fact,  recorded  in  Victoires  et  Conquetes,  where  it  is  related 
in  full  detail.  We  cut  through  the  three  Russian  lines, 
which  at  once  closed  up  and  formed  again,  so  that  we  had 
to  repeat  the  movement  back  again.  At  the  moment  when 
we  were  nearing  the  Emperor/*^  after  having  scattered  the 
Russians,  I  came  against  a  squadron  of  the  enemy's  cavalry. 
I  rushed  at  the  obstinate  brutes.  Two  Russian  officers,  per- 
fect giants,  attacked  me  both  at  once.  One  of  them  gave 
me  a  cut  across  the  head  that  crashed  through  everything, 
even  a  black  silk  cap  I  wore  next  my  head,  and  cut  deep 
into  the  skull.  I  fell  from  my  horse.  Murat  came  up  to 
support  me ;  he  rode  over  my  body,  he  and  all  his  men,  fifteen 
hundred  of  them — there  might  have  been  more !  My  death 
was  announced  to  the  Emperor,  who  as  a  precaution — for  he 
was  fond  of  me,  was  the  Master — wished  to  know  if  there 
were  no  hope  of  saving  the  man  he  had  to  thank  for  such 
a  vigorous  attack.  He  sent  two  surgeons  to  identify  me  and 
bring  me  into  Hospital,  saying,  perhaps  too  carelessly,  for  he 
was  very  busy,  **Go  and  see  whether  by  any  chance  poor 
Chabert  is  still  alive."  These  rascally  saw-bones,  who  had 
just  seen  me  lying  under  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  of  two  regi- 
ments, no  doubt  did  not  trouble  themselves  to  feel  my  pulse, 
and  reported  that  I  was  quite  dead.  The  certificate  of  death 
was  probably  made  out  in  accordance  with  the  rules  of  mili- 
tary jurisprudence." 

As  he  heard  his  visitor  express  himself  with  complete 
lucidity,  and  relate  a  story  so  probable  though  so  strange, 
the  young  lawyer  ceased  fingering  the  papers,  rested  his 
left  elbow  on  the  table,  and  with  his  head  on  his  hand  looked 
steadily  at  the  Colonel. 

9.  One  of  Napoleon's  most  famous  marshals.     He  took  part  in  the 
battle  of  Eylau. 

10.  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


COLONEL  CHABERT  83 

"Do  you  know^  Monsieur^  that  I  am  lawyer  to  the  Comtesse 
Ferraud/'  he  said^  interrupting  the  speaker^  "Colonel  Cha- 
bert's  widow  ?" 

"My  wife — yes.  Monsieur.  Therefore,  after  a  hundred 
fruitless  attempts  to  interest  lawyers,  who  have  all  thought 
me  mad,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  come  to  you.  I  will  tell 
you  of  my  misfortunes  afterwards;  for  the  present,  allow 
me  to  prove  the  facts,  explaining  rather  how  tiling:^  must 
have  fallen  out  rather  than  how  they  did  occur.  Certain 
circumstances,  known,  I  suppose,  to  no  one  but  the  Almighty, 
compel  me  to  speak  of  some  things  as  hypothetical.  The 
wounds  I  had  received  must  presumably  have  produced 
tetanus,  or  have  thrown  me  into  a  state  analogous  to  that 
of  a  disease  called,  I  believe,  catalepsy.  Otherwise  how  is  it 
conceivable  that  I  should  have  been  stripped,  as  is  the  cus- 
tom in  time  of  war,  and  thrown  into  the  common  grave  by 
the  men  ordered  to  bury  the  dead  ? 

"Allow  me  here  to  refer  to  a  detail  of  which  I  could  know 
nothing  till  after  the  event,  which,  after  all,  I  must  speak 
of  as  my  death.  At  Stuttgart,  in  1814,  I  met  an  old  quarter- 
master of  my  regiment.  This  dear  fellow,  the  only  man 
who  chose  to  recognize  me,  and  of  whom  I  will  tell  you  more 
later,  explained  the  marvel  of  my  preservation,  by  telling 
me  that  my  horse  was  shot  in  the  flank  at  the  moment  when 
I  was  wounded.  Man  and  beast  went  down  together,  like 
a  monk  cut  out  of  card-paper.  As  I  fell,  to  the  right  or  to 
the  left,  I  was  no  doubt  covered  by  the  body  of  my  horse, 
which  protected  me  from  being  trampled  to  death  or  hit  by  a 
ball. 

"When  I  came  to  myself.  Monsieur,  I  was  in  a  position 
and  an  atmosphere  of  which  I  could  give  you  no  idea  if 
I  talked  till  tomorrow.  The  little  air  there  was  to  breathe 
was  foul.  I  wanted  to  move,  and  found  no  room.  I  opened 
my  eyes,  and  saw  nothing.     The  most  alarming  circumstance 


84  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES  ^^ 

was  the  lack  of  air^  and  this  enlightened  me  as  to  my  situa- 
tion. I  understood  that  no  fresh  air  could  penetrate  to  me, 
and  that  I  must  die.  This  thought  took  off  the  sense  of 
intolerable  pain  which  had  aroused  me.  There  was  a  violent 
singing  in  my  ears.  I  heard — or  I  thought  I  heard_,  I  will 
assert  nothing — groans  from  the  world  of  dead  among  whom 
I  was  lying.  Some  nights  I  still  think  I  hear  those  stifled 
moans.;  though  the  remembrance  of  that  time  is  very  obscure, 
and  my  memory  very  indistinct,  in  spite  of  my  impressions 
of  far  more  acute  suffering  I  was  fated  to  go  through,  and 
which  have  confused  my  ideas. 

"But  there  was  something  more  awful  than  cries;  there 
was  a  silence  such  as  I  have  never  known  elsewhere — liter- 
ally, the  silence  of  the  grave.  At  last,  by  raising  my  hands 
and  feeling  the  dead,  I  discerned  a  vacant  space  between 
my  head  and  the  human  carrion  above.  I  could  thus  measure 
the  space,  granted  by  a  chance  of  which  I  knew  not  the 
cause.  It  would  seem  that,  thanks  to  the  carelessness  and 
the  haste  with  which  we  had  been  pitched  into  the  trench, 
two  dead  bodies  had  leaned  across  and  against  each  other, 
forming  an  angle  like  that  made  by  two  cards  when  a  child 
is  building  a  card  castle.  Feeling  about  me  at  once,  for  there 
was  no  time  for  play,  I  happily  felt  an  arm  lying  detached, 
the  arm  of  a  Hercules !  A  stout  bone,  to  which  I  owed  my 
rescue.  But  for  this  unhoped-for  help,  I  must  have  perished. 
But  with  a  fury  you  may  imagine,  I  began  to  work  my  way 
through  the  bodies  which  separated  me  from  the  layer  of 
earth  which  had  no  doubt  been  thrown  over  us — I  say  us, 
as  if  there  had  been  others  living!  I  worked  with  a  will, 
Monsieur,  for  here  I  am !  But  to  this  day  I  do  not  know 
how  I  succeeded  in  getting  through  the  pile  of  flesh  which 
formed  a  barrier  between  me  and  life.  You  will  say  I  had 
three  arms.  This  crowbar,  which  I  used  cleverly  enough^ 
opened  out  a  little  air  between  the  bodies  I  moved,  and  I 


COLONEL  CHABERT  85 

economized  my  breath.  At  last  I  saw  daylight,  but  through 
snow ! 

"At  that  moment  I  perceived  that  my  head  was  cut  open. 
Happily  my  blood,  or  that  of  my  comrades,  or  perhaps  the 
torn  skin  of  my  horse,  who  knows,  had  in  coagulating  formed 
a  sort  of  natural  plaster.  But,  in  spite  of  it,  I  fainted  away 
when  my  head  came  into  contact  with  the  snow.  However, 
the  little  warmth  left  in  me  melted  the  snow  about  me;  and 
when  I  recovered  consciousness,  I  found  myself  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  round  hole,  where  I  stood  shouting  as  long  as  I 
could.  But  the  sun  was  rising,  so  I  had  very  little  chance 
of  being  heard.  Was  there  any  one  in  the  fields  yet.^*  I 
pulled  myself  up,  using  my  feet  as  a  spring,  resting  on  one 
of  the  dead,  whose  ribs  were  firm.  You  may  suppose  that 
this  was  not  the  moment  for  saying,  *  Respect  courage  in  mis- 
fortune !'  In  short.  Monsieur,  after  enduring  the  anguish, 
if  the  word  is  strong  enough  for  my  frenzy  of  seeing  for  a 
long  time,  yes,  quite  a  long  time,  those  cursed  Germans  fly- 
ing from  a  voice  they  heard  where  they  could  see  no  one,  I 
was  dug  out  by  a  woman,  who  was  brave  or  curious  enough 
to  come  close  to  my  head,  which  must  have  looked  as  though 
it  had  sprouted  from  the  ground  like  a  mushroom.  This 
woman  went  to  fetch  her  husband,  and  between  them  they 
got  me  to  their  poor  hovel. 

"It  would  seem  that  I  must  have  again  fallen  into  a 
catalepsy — allow  me  to  use  the  word  to  describe  a  state  of 
which  I  have  no  idea,  but  which,  from  the  account  given 
by  my  hosts,  I  suppose  to  have  been  the  effect  of  that  malady. 
I  remained  for  six  months  between  life  and  death ;  not  speak- 
ing, or,  if  I  spoke,  talking  in  delirium.  At  last,  my  hosts 
got  me  admitted  to  the  hospital  at  Heilsberg. 

Six  months  afterwards,  when  I  remembered,  one  fine 
morning,  that  I  had  been  Colonel  Chabert,  and  when,  on 
recovering  my  wits,  I  tried  to  exact  from  my  nurse  rather 


86  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

more  respect  than  she  paid  to  any  poor  devil,  all  my  com- 
panions in  the  ward  began  to  laugh.  Luckily  for  me,  the 
surgeon,  out  of  professional  pride,  had  answered  for  my 
cure,  and  Was  naturally  interested  in  his  patient.  When  I 
told  him  coherently  about  my  former  life,  this  good  man, 
named  Sparchman,  signed  a  deposition,  drawn  up  in  the 
legal  form  of  his  country,  giving  an  account  of  the  miraculous 
way  in  which  I  had  escaped  from  the  trench  dug  for  the 
dead,  the  day  and  hour  when  I  had  been  found  by  my  bene- 
factress and  her  husband,  the  nature  and  exact  spot  of  my 
injuries,  adding  to  these  documents  a  description  of  my  per- 
son. 

"Well,  Monsieur,  I  have  neither  these  important  pieces 
of  evidence,  nor  the  declaration  I  made  before  a  notary  at 
Heilsberg,  with  a  view  to  establishing  my  identity.  From 
the  day  when  I  was  turned  out  of  that  town  by  the  events  of 
war^  I  have  wandered  about  like  a  vagabond,  begging  my ' 
bread,  treated  as  a  madman  when  I  have  told  my  story,  with- 
out ever  having  found  or  earned  a  sou  to  enable  me  to  recover 
the  deeds  \vhich  would  prove  my  statements,  and  restore 
me  to  society.  My  sufferings  have  often  kept  me  for  six 
months  at  a  time  in  some  little  town,  where  every  care  was 
taken  of  the  invalid  Frenchman,  but  where  he  was  laughed 
at  to  his  face  as  soon  as  he  said  he  was  Colonel  Chabert. 
For  a  long  time  that  laughter,  those  doubts,  used  to  put  me 
into  rages  which  did  me  harm,  and  which  even  led  to  my 
being  locked  up  at  Stuttgart  as  a  madman.  And,  indeed,  as 
you  may  judge  from  my  story,  there  was  ample  reason  for 
shutting  a  man  up. 

"At  the  end  of  two  years'  detention,  which  I  was  com- 
pelled to  submit  to,  after  hearing  my  keepers  say  a  thousand 
times,  'Here  is  a  poor  man  who  thinks  he  is  Colonel  Chabert' 
to  people  who  would  reply,  'Poor  fellow!'  I  became  con- 
vinced of  the  impossibility  of  my  own  adventure.     I  grew 


COLONEL  CHABERT  87 

melancholy,  resigned,  and  quiet,  and  gave  up  calling  myself 
Colonel  Chabert,  in  order  to  get  out  of  my  prison,  and  see 
France  once  more.  Oh,  Monsieur !  To  see  Paris  again  was 
a  delirium  which  I " 

Without  finishing  his  sentence.  Colonel  Chabert  fell  into 
a  deep  study,  which  Derville  respected. 

**One  fine  day,"  his  visitor  resumed,  "one  spring  day,  they 
gave  me  the  key  of  the  fields,  as  we  say,  and  ten  thalers/^ 
admitting  that  I  talked  quite  sensibly  on  all  subjects,  and 
no  longer  called  myself  Colonel  Chabert.  On  my  honor,  at 
that  time,  and  even  to  this  day,  sometimes  I  hate  my  name. 
I  wish  I  were  not  myself.  The  sense  of  my  rights  kills  me. 
If  my  illness  had  but  deprived  me  of  all  memory  of  my  past 
life,  I  could  be  happy.  I  should  have  entered  the  service 
again  under  any  name,  no  matter  what,  and  should,  perhaps, 
have  been  made  Field-Marshal  in  Austria  or  Russia.  Who 
knows  ?** 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  attorney,  "you  have  upset  all  my 
ideas.  I  feel  as  if  I  heard  you  in  a  dream.  Pause  for  a 
moment,  I  beg  of  you." 

"You  are  the  only  person,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a 
melancholy  look,  "who  ever  listened  to  me  so  patiently.  No 
lawyer  has  been  willing  to  lend  me  ten  napoleons^^  to  enable 
me  to  procure  from  Germany  the  necessary  documents  to 
begin  my  lawsuit " 

"What  lawsuit?"  said  the  attorney,  who  had  forgotten 
his  client's  painful  position  in  listening  to  the  narrative  of 
his  past  sufferings. 

"Why,  Monsieur,  is  not  the  Comtesse  Ferraud  my  wife? 
She  has  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year,  which  belong  to  me, 
and  she  will  not  give  me  a  sou.  When  I  tell  lawyers  these 
things — men  of  sense ;  when  I  propose — I,  a  beggar — to 

11.  A  thaler  is  a  German  silver  coin  worth  about  75  cents. 

12.  A  napoleon  was  worth  $4.00. 


g8  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

bring  an  action  against  a  Count  and  Countess;  when  I — a 
dead  man — bring  up  as  against  a  certificate  of  death  a  cer- 
tificate of  marriage  and  registers  of  births^  they  show  me 
out,  either  with  the  air  of  cold  politeness,  which  you  all 
know  how  to  assume  to  rid  yourselves  of  a  hapless  wretch, 
or  brutally,  like  men  who  think  they  have  to  deal  with  a 
swindler  or  a  madman — it  depends  on  their  nature.  I  have 
been  buried  under  the  dead ;  but  now  I  am  buried  under  the 
living,  under  papers,  under  facts,  under  the  whole  of  society, 
which  wants  to  shove  me  underground  again  \" 

**Pray  resume  your  narrative,"  said  Derville. 

"Pray  resume  it!'*  cried  the  hapless  old  man,  taking  the 
young  lawyer's  hand.  "That  is  the  first  polite  word  I  have 
heard  since " 

The  Colonel  wept.  Gratitude  choked  his  voice.  The 
appealing  and  unutterable  eloquence  that  lies  in  the  eyes,  in 
a  gesture,  even  in  silence,  entirely  convinced  Derville,  and 
touched  him  deeply. 

"Listen,  Monsieur,"  said  he;  "I  have 'this  evening  won 
three  hundred  francs  at  cards.  I  may  very  well  lay  out  half 
that  sum  in  making  a  man  happy.  I  will  begin  the  inquiries 
and  researches  necessary  to  obtain  the  documents  of  which 
you  speak,  and  until  they  arrive  I  will  give  you  five  francs 
a  day.  If  you  are  Colonel  Chabert,  you  will  pardon  the 
smallness  of  the  loan  as  coming  from  a  young  man  who  has 
his  fortune  to  make.     Proceed." 

The  Colonel,  as  he  called  himself,  sat  for  a  moment  motion- 
less and  bewildered;  the  depth  of  his  woes  had  no  doubt 
destroyed  his  powers  of  belief.  Though  he  was  eager  in 
pursuit  of  his  military  distinction,  of  his  fortune,  of  himself, 
perhaps  it  was  in  obedience  to  the  inexplicable  feeling,  the 
latent  germ  in  every  man*s  heart,  to  which  we  owe  the 
experiments  of  alchemists,  the  passion  for  glory,  the  discov- 
eries of  astronomy  and  of  physics,  everything  which  prompts 


COLONEL  CHABERT  89 

man  to  expand  his  being  by  multiplying  himself  through 
deeds  or  ideas.  In  his  mind  the  Ego  was  now  but  a  secondary 
object^  just  as  the  vanity  of  success  or  the  pleasure  of  win- 
ning become  dearer  to  the  gambler  than  the  object  he  has 
at  stake.  The  young  lawyer's  words  were  as  a  miracle  to 
this  man^  for  ten  years  repudiated  by  his  wife^  by  justice,  by 
the  whole  social  creation.  To  find  in  a  lawyer's  office  the 
ten  gold  pieces  which  had  so  long  been  refused  him  by  so 
many  people,  and  in  so  many  ways !  The  Colonel  was  like 
the  lady  who,  having  been  ill  of  a  fever  for  fifteen  years, 
fancied  she  had  some  fresh  complaint  when  she  was  cured. 
There  are  joys  in  which  we  have  ceased  to  believe;  they 
fall  on  us,  it  is  like  a  thunderbolt ;  they  burn  us.  The  poor 
man's  gratitude  was  too  great  to  find  utterance.  To  super- 
ficial observers  he  seemed  cold,  but  Derville  saw  complete 
honesty  under  this  amazement.  A  swindler  would  have 
found  his  voice. 

"Where  was  I  ?"  said  the  Colonel,  with  the  simplicity  of 
a  child  or  of  a  soldier,  for  there  is  often  something  of  the 
child  in  a  true  soldier,  and  almost  always  something  of  the 
soldier  in  a  child,  especially  in  France. 

"At  Stuttgart.     You  were  out  of  prison,"  said  Derville. 

"You  know  my  wife?"  asked  the  Colonel. 

"Yes,"  said  Derville,  with  a  bow. 

"What  is  she  like?" 

"Still  quite  charming." 

The  old  man  held  up  his  hand,  and  seemed  to  be  swal- 
lowing down  some  secret  anguish  with  the  grave  and  solemn 
resignation  that  is  characteristic  of  men  who  have  stood  the 
ordeal  of  blood  and  fire  on  the  battlefield. 

"Monsieur,"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  cheerfulness — for  he 
breathed  again,  the  poor  Colonel;  he  had  again  risen  from 
the  grave;  he  had  just  melted  a  covering  of  snow  less  easily 
thawed  than  that  which  had  once  before  frozen  his  head; 


90  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

and  he  drew  a  deep  breathy  as  if  he  had  just  escaped  from 
a  dungeon — "Monsieur^  if  I  had  been  a  handsome  young 
fellow,  none  of  my  misfortunes  would  have  befallen  me. 
Women  believe  in  men  when  they  flavor  their  speeches  with 
the  word  Love.  They  hurry  then,  they  come,  they  go,  they 
are  everywhere  at  once;  they  intrigue,  they  assert  facts, 
they  play  the  very  devil  for  a  man  who  takes  their  fancy. 
But  how  could  I  interest  a  woman  .f^  I  had  a  face  like  a 
Requiem. ^^  I  was  dressed  like  a  sans-culotte?"^  I  was  more 
like  an  Esquimaux  than  a  Frenchman — I,  who  had  formerly 
been  considered  one  of  the  smartest  of  fops  in  1799! — I, 
Chabert,  Count  of  the  Empire. 

"Well,  on  the  very  day  when  I  was  turned  out  into  the 
streets  like  a  dog,  I  met  the  quartermaster  of  whom  I  just 
now  spoke.  This  old  soldier*s  name  was  Boutin.  The  poor 
devil  and  I  made  the  queerest  pair  of  broken-down  hacks  I 
ever  set  eyes  on.  I  met  him  out  walking ;  but  though  I  recog- 
nized him,  he  could  not  possibly  guess  who  I  was.  We  went 
into  a  tavern  together.  In  there,  when  I  told  him  my  name, 
Boutin's  mouth  opened  from  ear  to  ear  in  a  roar  of  laughter, 
like  the  bursting  of  a  mortar.  That  mirth.  Monsieur,  was  one 
of  the  keenest  pangs  I  have  known.  It  told  me  without  dis- 
guise how  great  were  the  changes  in  me !  I  was,  then,  un- 
recognizable even  to  the  humblest  and  most  grateful  of  my 
former  friends ! 

**I  had  once  saved  Boutin's  life,  but  it  was  only  the  repay- 
ment of  a  debt  I  owed  him.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  he  did 
me  this  service;  it  was  at  Ravenna,  in  Italy.  The  house 
where  Boutin  prevented  my  being  stabbed  was  not  extremely 
respectable.  At  that  time  I  was  not  a  colonel,  but,  like 
Boutin  himself,  a  common  trooper.  Happily  there  were 
certain  details  of  this  adventure  which  could  be  known  only 

13.  He  looked  like  one  dead,  for  whom  a  mass  is  chanted. 

14.  Literally,  "without  breeches."  A  name  given  to  the  Republican 
extremists  of  the  French  Revolution. 


COLONEL  CHABERT  91 

to  us  two^  and  when  I  recalled  them  to  his  mind  his  incre- 
dulity diminished.  I  then  told  him  the  story  of  my  singular 
experiences.  Although  my  eyes  and  my  voice,  he  told  me, 
were  strangely  altered,  although  I  had  neither  hair,  teeth, 
nor  eyebrows,  and  was  as  colorless  as  an  Albino,  he  at  last 
recognized  his  Colonel  in  the  beggar,  after  a  thousand  ques- 
tions, which  I  answered  triumphantly. 

*'He  related  his  adventures ;  they  were  not  less  extraordi- 
nary than  my  own ;  he  had  lately  come  back  from  the  fron- 
tiers of  China,  which  he  had  tried  to  cross  after  escaping 
from  Siberia.  He  told  me  of  the  catastrophe  of  the  Rus- 
sian campaign,  and  of  Napoleon's  first  abdication.  That 
news  was  one  of  the  things  which  caused  me  most  anguish ! 

"We  were  two  curious  derelicts,  having  been  rolled  over 
the  globe  as  pebbles  are  rolled  by  the  ocean  when  storms  bear 
them  from  shore  to  shore.  Between  us  we  had  seen  Egypt, 
Syria,  Spain,  Russia,  Holland,  Germany,  Italy  and  Dal- 
matia,  England,  China,  Tartary,  Siberia;  the  only  thing 
wanting  was  that  neither  of  us  had  been  to  America  or  the 
Indies.  Finally,  Boutin,  who  still  was  more  locomotive  than 
I,  undertook  to  go  to  Paris  as  quickly  as  might  be  to  inform 
my  wife  of  the  predicament  in  which  I  was.  I  wrote  a  long 
letter  full  of  details  to  Madame  Chabert.  That,  Monsieur, 
was  the  fourth  !  If  I  had  had  any  relations,  perhaps  nothing 
of  all  this  might  have  happened;  but,  to  be  frank  with  you, 
I  am  but  a  workhouse  child,  a  soldier,  whose  sole  fortune 
was  his  courage,  whose  sole  family  is  mankind  at  large, 
whose  country  is  France,  whose  only  protector  is  the  Al- 
mighty.— Nay,  I  am  wrong !  I  had  a  father — the  Emperor ! 
Ah !  if  he  were  but  here,  the  dear  man !  If  he  could  see  his 
Chabert,  as  he  used  to  call  me,  in  the  state  in  which  I  am 
now,  he  would  be  in  a  rage !  What  is  to  be  done  ?  Our  sun 
is  set,  and  we  are  all  out  in  the  cold  now.  After  all,  political 
events  might  account  for  my  wife's  silence ! 


92  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"Boutin  set  out.  He  was  a  lucky  fellow !  He  had  two 
bears,  admirably  trained,  which  brought  him  in  a  living.  I 
could  not  go  with  him ;  the  pain  I  suffered  forbade  my  walk- 
ing long  stages.  I  wept.  Monsieur,  when  we  parted,  after 
I  had  gone  as  far  as  my  state  allowed  in  company  with  him 
and  his  bears.  At  Carlsruhe  I  had  an  attack  of  neuralgia 
in  the  head,  and  lay  for  six  weeks  on  straw  in  an  inn. — I 
should  never  have  ended  if  I  were  to  tell  you  all  the  distresses 
of  my  life  as  a  beggar.  Moral  suffering,  before  which  physi- 
cal suffering  pales,  nevertheless  excites  less  pity,  because 
it  is  not  seen.  I  remember  shedding  tears,  as  I  stood  in 
front  of  a  fine  house  in  Strassburg  where  I  once  had  given 
an  entertainment,  and  where  nothing  was  given  me,  not  even 
a  piece  of  bread.  Having  agreed  with  Boutin  on  the  road 
I  was  to  take,  I  went  to  every  post-office  to  ask  if  there  were 
a  letter  or  some  money  for  me.  I  arrived  at  Paris  without 
having  found  either.  What  despair  I  had  been  forced  to 
endure !  *Boutin  must  be  dead  !*  I  told  myself,  and  in  fact 
the  poor  fellow  was  killed  at  Waterloo.  I  heard  of  his 
death  later,  and  by  mere  chance.  His  errand  to  my  wife 
had,  of  course,  been  fruitless. 

*'At  last  I  entered  Paris — with  the  Cossacks.  To  me  this 
was  grief  on  grief.  On  seeing  the  Russians  in  France,  I 
quite  forgot  that  I  had  no  shoes  on  my  feet  nor  money  in 
my  pocket.  Yes,  Monsieur,  my  clothes  were  in  tatters.  The 
evening  before  I  reached  Paris  I  was  obliged  to  bivouac  in 
the  woods  of  Claye.  The  chill  of  the  night  air  no  doubt 
brought  on  an  attack  of  some  nameless  complaint  which 
seized  me  as  I  was  crossing  the  Faubourg  Saint-Martin.  I 
dropped  almost  senseless  at  the  door  of  an  ironmonger's 
shop.  When  I  recovered  I  was  in  a  bed  in  the  Hotel-Dieu.^^ 
There  I  stayed  very  contentedly  for  about  a  month.  I  was 
then  turned  out;  I  had  no  money,  but  I  was  well,  and  my 

15.  A  famous  hospital  in  Paris. 


COLONEL  CHABERT  93 

feet  were  on  the  good  stones  of  Paris.  With  what  delight 
and  haste  did  I  make  my  way  to  the  Rue  du  Mont-Blanc, 
where  my  wife  should  be  living  in  a  house  belonging  to  me ! 
Bah !  the  Rue  du  Mont-Blanc  was  now  the  Rue  de  la  Chaussee 
d'Antin;  I  could  not  find  my  house;  it  had  been  sold  and 
pulled  down.  Speculators  had  built  several  houses  over  my 
gardens.  Not  knowing  that  my  wife  had  married  M.  Ferraud, 
I  could  obtain  no  information. 

"At  last  I  went  to  the  house  of  an  old  lawyer  who  had 
been  in  charge  of  my  affairs.  This  worthy  man  was  dead, 
after  selling  his  connection  to  a  younger  man.  This  gentle- 
man informed  me,  to  my  great  surprise,  of  the  administra- 
tion of  my  estate,  the  settlement  of  the  moneys,  of  my  wife's 
marriage,  and  the  birth  of  her  two  children.  When  I  told 
him  that  I  was  Colonel  Chabert,  he  laughed  so  heartily  that 
I  left  him  without  saying  another  word.  My  detention  at 
Stuttgart  had  suggested  possibilities  of  Charenton,^^  and  I 
determined  to  act  with  caution.  Then,  Monsieur,  knowing 
where  my  wife  lived,  I  went  to  her  house,  my  heart  high  with 
hope. — Well,'*  said  the. Colonel,  with  a  gesture  of  concen- 
trated fury,  *'when  I  called  under  an  assumed  name  I  was  not 
admitted,  and  on  the  day  when  I  used  my  own  I  was  turned 
out  of  doors. 

**To  see  the  Countess  come  home  from  a  ball  or  the  play 
in  the  early  morning,  I  have  sat  whole  nights  through,  crouch- 
ing close  to  the  wall  of  her  gateway.  My  eyes  pierced  the 
depths  of  the  carriage,  which  flashed  past  me  with  the  swift- 
ness of  lightning,  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  woman  who 
is  my  wife  and  no  longer  mine.  Oh,  from  that  day  I  have 
lived  for  vengeance !"  cried  the  old  man  in  a  hollow  voice, 
and  suddenly  standing  up  in  front  of  Derville.  "She  knows 
that  I  am  alive;  since  my  return  she  has  had  two  letters 
written  with  my  own  hand.     She  loves  me  no  more ! — I — I 

16.  An   insane  asylum   near  Paris. 


94  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

know  not  whether  I  love  or  hate  her.  I  long  for  her  and 
curse  her  by  turns.  To  me  she  owes  all  her  fortune,  all 
her  happiness;  well,  she  has  not  sent  me  the  very  smallest 
pittance.  Sometimes  I  do  not  know  what  will  become  of 
me !" 

With  these  words  the  veteran  dropped  on  to  his  chair 
again  and  remained  motionless.  Derville  sat  in  silence, 
studying  his  client. 

**It  is  a  serious  business/'  he  said  at  length,  mechanically. 
"Even  granting  the  genuineness  of  the  documents  to  be  pro- 
cured from  Heilsberg,  it  is  not  proved  to  me  that  we  can  at 
once  win  our  case.  It  must  go  before  three  tribunals  in  suc- 
cession. I  must  think  such  a  matter  over  with  a  clear  head ; 
it  is  quite  exceptional.*' 

**0h,"  said  the  Colonel,  coldly,  with  a  haughty  jerk  of 
his  head,  "if  I  fail,  I  can  die — but  not  alone." 

The  feeble  old  man  had  vanished.  The  eyes  were  those 
of  a  man  of  energy,  lighted  up  with  the  spark  of  desire  and 
revenge. 

"We  must  perhaps  compromise,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"Compromise!"  echoed  Colonel  Chabert.  "Am  I  dead,  or 
am  I  alive  .^" 

"I  hope.  Monsieur,"  the  attorney  went  on,  "that  you  will 
follow  my  advice.  Your  cause  is  mine.  You  will  soon  per- 
ceive the  interest  I  take  in  your  situation,  almost  unexampled 
in  judicial  records.  For  the  moment  I  will  give  you  a  letter 
to  my  notary,  who  will  pay  you  to  your  order  fifty  francs 
every  ten  days.  It  would  be  unbecoming  for  you  to  come 
here  to  receive  alms.  If  you  are  Colonel  Chabert,  you  ought 
to  be  at  no  man's  mercy.  I  shall  regard  these  advances  as  a 
loan;  you  have  estates  to  recover;  you  are  rich." 

This  delicate  compassion  brought  tears  to  the  old  man's 
eyes.  Derville  rose  hastily,  for  it  was  perhaps  not  correct 
for  a  lawyer  to  show  emotion;  he  went  into  the  adjoining 


COLONEL  CHABERT  95 

room^  and  came  back  with  an  unsealed  letter,  which  he  gave 
to  the  Colonel.  When  the  poor  man  held  it  in  his  hand,  he 
felt  through  the  paper  two  gold  pieces. 

**Will  you  be  good  enough  to  describe  the  documents,  and 
tell  me  the  name  of  the  town,  and  in  what  kingdom?'*  said 
the  lawyer. 

The  Colonel  dictated  the  information,  and  verified  the 
spelling  of  the  names  of  places ;  then  he  took  his  hat  in  one 
hand,  looked  at  Derville,  and  held  out  the  other — a  horny 
hand,  saying  with  much  simplicity — 

"On  my  honor,  sir,  after  the  Emperor,  you  are  the  man 
to  whom  I  shall  owe  most.     You  are  a  splendid  fellow  V 

The  attorney  clapped  his  hand  into  the  Colonel's,  saw  him 
to  the  stairs,  and  held  a  light  for  him. 

**Boucard,"  said  Derville  to  his  head  clerk,  **I  have  just 
listened  to  a  tale  that  may  cost  me  five-and-twenty  louis.^^ 
If  I  am  robbed,  I  shall  not  regret  the  money,  for  I  shall 
have  seen  the  most  consummate  actor  of  the  day." 

When  the  Colonel  was  in  the  street  and  close  to  a  lamp, 
he  took  the  two  twenty-franc  pieces  out  of  the  letter  and 
looked  at  them  for  a  moment  under  the  light.  It  was  the 
first  gold  he  had  seen  for  nine  years. 

"I  may  smoke  cigars  I"  he  said  to  himself. 

About  three  months  after  this  interview,  at  night,  in 
Derville's  room,  the  notary  commissioned  to  advance  the  half- 
pay  on  Derville's  account  to  his  eccentric  client,  came  to 
consult  the  attorney  on  a  serious  matter,  and  began  by  beg- 
ging him  to  refund  the  six  hundred  francs  that  the  old  soldier 
had  received. 

"Are  you  amusing  yourself  with  pensioning  the  old  army  ?" 
said  the  notary,  laughing — a  young  man  named  Crottat,  who 
ha'd  just  bought  up  the  office  in  which  he  had  been  head 

17.  A  louis  is  a  gold   coin   worth  $4.00. 


96  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

clerk^  his  chief  having  fled  in  consequence  of  a  disastrous 
bankruptcy. 

"I  have  to  thank  you,  my  dear  sir,  for  reminding  me  of 
that  affair/'  replied  Derville.  **My  philanthropy  will  not 
carry  me  beyond  twenty-five  louis;  I  have,  I  fear,  already 
been  the  dupe  of  my  patriotism." 

"As  Derville  finished  the  sentence,  he  saw  on  his  desk 
the  papers  his  head  clerk  had  laid  out  for  him.  His  eye  was 
struck  by  the  appearance  of  the  stamps — long,  square,  and 
triangular,  in  red  and  blue  ink,  which  distinguished  a  letter 
that  had  come  through  the  Prussian,  Austrian,  Bavarian,  and 
French  postoffices. 

"Ah  ha  y  said  he  with  a  laugh,  "here  is  the  last  act  of  the 
comedy ;  now  we  shall  see  if  I  have  been  taken  in !" 

He  took  up  the  letter  and  opened  it;  but  he  could  not  read 
it;  it  was  written  in  German. 

"Boucard,  go  yourself  and  have  this  letter  translated, 
and  bring  it  back  immediately,''  said  Derville,  half  opening 
his  study  door,  and  giving  the  letter  to  the  head  clerk. 

The  notary  at  Berlin,  to  whom  the  lawyer  had  written, 
informed  him  that  the  documents  he  had  been  requested  to 
forward  would  arrive  within  a  few  days  of  this  note  an- 
nouncing them.  They  were,  he  said,  all  perfectly  regular 
and  duly  witnessed,  and  legally  stamped  to  serve  as  evidence 
in  law.  He  also  informed  him  that  almost  all  the  witnesses 
to  the  facts  recorded  under  these  affidavits  were  still  to  be 
found  at  Eylau,  in  Prussia,  and  that  the  woman  to  whom 
M.  le  Comte  Chabert  owed  his  life  was  still  living  in  a 
suburb  of  Heilsberg. 

"This  looks  like  business,"  cried  Derville,  when  Boucard 
had  given  him  the  substance  of  the  letter.  "But  look  here, 
my  boy,"  he  went  on,  addressing  the  notary,  "I  shall  want 
some  information  which  ought  to  exist  in  your  office.  Was 
it  not  that  old  rascal  Roguin ?" 


COLONEL  CHABERT  97 

"We  will  say  that  unfortunate,  that  ill-used  Roguin/' 
interrupted  Alexandre  Crottat  with  a  laugh. 

"Well,  was  it  not  that  ill-u^ed  man  who  has  just  carried 
off  eight  hundred  thousand  francs  of  his  clients'  money,  and 
reduced  several  families  to  despair,  who  effected  the  settle- 
ment of  Chabert's  estate?  I  fancy  I  have  seen  that  in  the 
documents  in  our  case  of  Ferraud." 

"Yes,"  said  Crottat.  "It  was  when  I  Was  third  clerk;  I 
copied  the  papers  and  studied  them  thoroughly.  Rose 
Chapotel,  wife  and  widow  of  Hyacinthe,  called  Chabert, 
Count  of  the  Empire,  grand  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 
They  had  married  without  settlement;  thus,  they  held  all 
the  property  in  common.  To  the  best  of  my  recollection,  the 
personalty  was  about  six  hundred  thousand  francs.  Before 
his  marriage,  Comte  Chabert  had  made  a  will  in  favor  of 
the  hospitals  of  Paris,  by  which  he  left  them  one-quarter  of 
the  fortune  he  might  possess  at  the  time  of  his  decease,  the 
State  to  take  the  other  quarter.  The  will  was  contested, 
there  was  a  forced  sale,  and  then  a  division,  for  the  attorneys 
went  at  a  pace.  At  the  time  of  the  settlement  Jhe  monster 
who  was  then  governing  France  handed  over  to  the  widow, 
by  special  decree,  the  portion  bequeathed  to  the  treasury.'* 

"So  that  Comte  Chabert's  personal  fortune  was  no  more 
than  three  hundred  thousand  francs?" 

"Consequently  so  it  was,  old  fellow !"  said  Crottat.  "You 
lawyers  sometimes  are  very  clear-headed,  though  you  are 
accused  of  false  practices  in  pleading  for  one  side  or  the 
other." 

Colonel  Chabert,  whose  address  was  written  at  the  bottom 
of  the  first  receipt  he  had  given  the  notary,  was  lodging  in 
the  Faubourg  Saint-Marceau,  Rue  du  Petit-Banquier,  with 
an  old  quartermaster  of  the  Imperial  Guard,  now  a  cow- 
keeper,  named  Vergniaud.  Having  reached  the  spot,  Der- 
ville  was  obliged  to  go  on  foot  in  search  of  his  client,  for 


98  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

his  coachman  declined  to  drive  along  an  unpaved  street, 
where  the  ruts  were  rather  too  deep  for  cab  wheels.  Looking 
about  him  on  all  sides,  the  lawyer  at  last  discovered  at  the 
end  of  the  street  nearest  to  the  boulevard,  between  two  walls 
built  of  bones  and  mud,  two  shabby  stone  gate-posts,  much 
knocked  about  by  carts,  in  spite  of  two  wooden  stumps  that 
served  as  blocks.  These  posts  supported  a  cross  beam  with 
a  pent-house  coping  of  tiles,  and  on  the  beam,  in  red  letters, 
were  the  words,  *'Vergniaud,  dairyman."  To  the  right  of 
this  inscription  were  some  eggs,  to  the  left  a  cow,  all  painted 
in  white.  The  gate  was  open,  and  no  doubt  remained  open 
all  day.  Beyond  a  good-sized  yard  there  was  a  house  facing 
the  gate,  if  indeed  the  name  of  house  may  be  applied  to  one 
of  the  hovels  built  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris,  which  are 
like  nothing  else,  not  even  the  most  wretched  dwellings 
in  the  country,  of  which  they  have  all  the  poverty  without 
their  poetry. 

Indeed,  in  the  midst  of  fields,  even  a  hovel  may  have 
a  certain  grace  derived  from  the  pure  air,  the  verdure,  the 
open  country — a  hill,  a  se^'pentine  road,  vineyards,  quick- 
set hedges,  moss-grown  thatch  and  rural  implements;  but 
poverty  in  Paris  gains  dignity  only  by  horror.  Though 
recently  built,  this  house  seemed  ready  to  fall  into  ruins. 
None  of  its  materials  had  found  a  legitimate  use;  they  had 
been  collected  from  the  various  demolitions  which  are  going 
on  every  day  in  Paris.  On  a  shutter  made  of  the  boards  of 
a  shop-sign  Derville  read  the  words,  *'Fancy  Goods.*'  The 
windows  were  all  mismatched  and  grotesquely  placed.  The 
ground  floor,  which  seemed  to  be  the  habitable  part,  was 
on  one  side  raised  above  the  soil,  and  on  the  other  sunk  in 
the  rising  ground.  Between  the  gate  and  the  house  lay  a 
puddle  full  of  stable  litter,  into  which  flowed  the  rain-water 
and  house  waste.  The  back  wall  of  this  frail  construction, 
which  seemed  rather  more  solidly  built  than  the  rest,  sup- 


COLONEL  CHABERT  99 

ported  a  row  of  barred  hutches,  where  rabbits  bred  their 
numerous  families.  To  the  right  of  the  gate  was  the  cow- 
house, with  a  loft  above  for  fodder;  it  communicated  with 
the  house  through  the  dairy.  To  the  left  was  a  poultry  yard, 
with  a  stable  and  pig-styes,  the  roofs  finished,  like  that  of 
the  house,  with  rough  deal  boards  nailed  so  as  to  overlap,  and 
shabbily  thatched  with  rushes. 

Like  most  of  the  places  where  the  elements  of  the  huge 
meal  daily  devoured  by  Paris  are  every  day  prepared,  the 
yard  Derville  now  entered  showed  traces  of  the  hurry  that 
comes  of  the  necessity  for  being  ready  at  a  fixed  hour.  The 
large  pot-bellied  tin  cans  in  which  milk  is  carried,  and  the 
little  pots  for  cream,  were  flung  pell-mell  at  the  dairy  door, 
with  their  linen-covered  stoppers.  The  rags  that  were  used 
to  clean  them,  fluttered  in  the  sunshine,  riddled  with  holes, 
hanging  to  strings  fastened  to  poles.  The  placid  horse,  of  a 
breed  known  only  to  milk-women,  had  gone  a  few  steps  from 
the  cart,  and  was  standing  in  front  of  the  stable,  the  door 
being  shut.  A  goat  was  munching  the  shoots  of  a  starved 
and  dusty  vine  that  clung  to  the  cracked  yellow  wall  of  the 
house.  A  cat,  squatting  on  the  cream  j  ars,  was  licking  them 
over.  The  fowls,  scared  by  Perville's  approach,  scuttered 
away  screaming,  and  the  watch-dog  barked. 

**And  the  man  who  decided  the  victory  at  Eylau  is  to  be 
found  here  V  said  Derville  to  himself,  as  his  eyes  took  in  at 
a  glance  the  general  effect  of  the  squalid  scene. 

The  house  had  been  left  in  charge  of  three  little  boys. 
One,  who  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  cart  loaded  with  hay, 
was  pitching  stones  into  the  chimney  of  a  neighboring  house, 
in  the  hope  that  they  might  fall  into  a  saucepan ;  another  was 
trying  to  get  a  pig  into  a  cart  by  the  back  board,  which 
rested  on  the  ground ;  while  the  third,  hanging  on  in  front, 
was  waiting  till  the  pig  had  got  into  the  cart,  to  hoist  it  by 
making  the  whole  thing  tilt.     When  Derville  asked  them  if 


100  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

M .  Chabert  lived  there,  neither  of  them  replied,  but  all  three 
looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  bright  stupidity,  if  I  may  com- 
bine those  two  words.  Derville  repeated  his  questions,  but 
without  success.  Provoked  by  the  saucy  cunning  of  these 
three  imps,  he  abused  them  with  the  sort  of  pleasantry  which 
young  men  think  they  have  a  right  to  address  to  little  boys, 
and  they  broke  the  silence  with  a  horse-laugh.  Then  Der- 
ville was  angry. 

The  Colonel,  hearing  him,  now  came  out  of  a  little  low 
room,  close  to  the  dairy,  and  stood  on  the  threshold  of  his 
doorway  with  indescribable  military  coolness.  He  had  in 
his  mouth  a  very  finely  colored  pipe — a  technical  phrase  to  a 
smoker — a  humble,  short  clay  pipe  of  the  kind  called  "brule- 
gueule/'  He  lifted  the  peak  of  a  dreadfully  greasy  cloth 
cap,  saw  Derville,  and  came  straight  across  the  midden  to 
join  his  benefactor  the  sooner,  calling  out  in  friendly  tones 
to  the  boys — 

**Silence  in  the  ranks !" 

The  children  at  once  kept  a  respectful  silence,  which 
showed  the  power  the  old  soldier  had  over  them. 

*'Why  did  you  not  write  to  me.^^''  he  said  to  Derville.  "Go 
along  by  the  cowhouse!  There — ^the  path  is  paved  there," 
he  exclaimed,  seeing  the  lawyer's  hesitancy,  for  he  did  not 
wish  to  wet  his  feet  in  the  manure  heap. 

Jumping  from  one  dry  spot  to  another,  Derville  reached 
the  door  by  which  the  Colonel  had  come  out.  Chabert  seemed 
but  ill  pleased  at  having  to  receive  him  in  the  bedroom  he 
occupied;  and,  in  fact,  Derville  found  but  one  chair  there. 
The  Colonel's  bed  consisted  of  some  trusses  of  straw,  over 
which  his  hostess  had  spread  two  or  three  of  those  old  frag- 
ments of  carpet,  picked  up  heaven  knows  where,  which  milk- 
women  use  to  cover  the  seats  of  their  carts.  The  floor  was 
simply  the  trodden  earth.  The  walls,  sweating  saltpetre, 
green  with  mold,  and  full  of  cracks,  were  so  excessively 


COLONEL  CHABERT  IQl 


damp  that  on  the  side  where  the  '^Coloft^Vs'  b'ed  w3,s  a  reed 
mat  had  been  nailed.  The  famous "^bc^x-co at  "B^ng'  6ix'&  nail. 
Two  pairs  of  old  boots  lay  in  a  coi'nei'.*  There* was"  liof  a  sign 
of  linen.  On  the  worm-eaten  table  the  Bulletins  de  la  Grande 
Armee,  reprinted  by  Plancher^  lay  open^  and  seemed  to  be  the 
Colonel's  reading;  his  countenance  was  calm  and  serene  in 
the  midst  of  this  squalor.  His  visit  to  Derville  seemed  to 
have  altered  his  features ;  the  lawyer  perceived  in  them  traces 
of  a  happy  feelings  a  particular  gleam  set  there  by  hope. 

"Does  the  smell  of  a  pipe  annoy  you?"  he  said^  placing 
the  dilapidated  straw-bottomed  chair  for  his  lawyer. 

"But^  Colonel^  you  are  dreadfully  uncomfortable  here  !*' 

The  speech  was  wrung  from  Derville  by  the  distrust 
natural  to  lawyers^  and  the  deplorable  experience  which 
they  derive  early  in  life  from  the  appalling  and  obscure 
tragedies  at  which  they  look  on. 

**Here/*  said  he  to  himself^  "is  a  man  who  has  of  course 
spent  my  money  in  satisfying  a  trooper's  three  theological 
virtues — play^  wine^  and  women !" 

"To  be  sure.  Monsieur,  we  are  not  distinguished  for 
luxury  here.     It  is  a  camp  lodging,  tempered  by  friendship, 

but "     And  the  soldier  shot  a  deep  glance  at  the  man 

of  law —  "I  have  done  no  one  wrong,  I  have  never  turned  my 
back  on  anybody,  and  I  sleep  in  peace." 

Derville  reflected  that  there  would  be  some  want  of  deli- 
cacy in  asking  his  client  to  account  for  the  sums  of  money 
he  had  advanced,  so  he  merely  said — 

"But  why  would  you  not  come  to  Paris,  where  you  might 
have  lived  as  cheaply  as  you  do  here,  but  where  you  would 
have  been  better  lodged?" 

"Why,"  replied  the  Colonel,  "the  good  folks  with  whom  I 
am  living  had  taken  me  in  and  fed  me  gratis  for  a  year.  How 
could  I  leave  them  just  when  I  had  a  little  money.  Besides, 
the  father  of  those  three  pickles  is  an  old  Egyptian — — 


102  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"Aif  Egyptian!"' ''  ^  '*'' 
/»We  ^ite  t;h'at;  h^amfe  tb  the  troopers  who  came  back  from  ^ 
the  exj)edltioil  into* Egypt,  of  which  I  was  one.  Not  merely  t 
are  all  who  got  back  brothers;  Vergniaud  was  in  my  regi-t 
ment.  We  have  shared  a  draught  of  water  in  the  desert  ;| 
and  besides,  I  have  not  yet  finished  teaching  his  brats  to 
read." 

"He  might  have  lodged  you  better  for  your  money/'  said 
Derville. 

"Bah !"  said  the  Colonel,  "his  children  sleep  on  the  straw 
as  I  do.  He  and  his  wife  have  no  better  bed ;  they  are  very 
poor,,  you  see.  They  have  taken  a  bigger  business  than  they 
can  manage.  But  if  I  recover  my  fortune .  .  .  However,  it 
does  very  well.'* 

"Colonel,  tomorrow,  or  next  day,  I  shall  receive  your 
papers  from  Heilsberg.  The  woman  who  dug  you  out  is  still 
alive!" 

"Curse  the  money !  To  think  I  haven't  got  any  !"  he  cried, 
flinging  his  pipe  on  the  ground. 

Now,  a  well-colored  pipe  is  to  a  smoker  a  precious  posses- 
sion ;  but  the  impulse  was  so  natural,  the  emotion  so  generous, 
that  every  smoker,  and  the  excise  office  itself,  would  have 
pardoned  this  crime  of  treason  to  tobacco.  Perhaps  the 
angels  may  have  picked  up  the  pieces. 

"Colonel,  it  is  an  exceedingly  complicated  business,"  said 
Derville  as  they  left  the  room  to  walk  up  and  down  in  the 
sunshine. 

"To  me,"  said  the  soldier,  "it  appears  exceedingly  simple. 
I  was  thought  to  be  dead,  and  here  I  am !  Give  me  back  my 
wife  and  my  fortune;  give  me  the  rank  of  General,  to  which 
I  have  a  right,  for  I  was  made  Colonel  of  the  Imperial  Guard 
the  day  before  the  battle  of  Eylau." 

"Things  are  not  done  so  in  the  legal  world,"  said  Derville. 
"Listen  to  me.    You  are  Colonel  Chabert,  I  am  glad  to  think 


COLONEL  CHABERT  103 

it;  but  it  has  to  be  proved  j udicially  to  persons  whose  interest 
it  will  be  to  deny  it.  Hence,  your  papers  will  be  disputed. 
That  contention  will  give  rise  to  ten  or  twelve  preliminary 
inquiries.  Every  question  will  be  sent  under  contradiction  up 
to  the  supreme  court,  and  give  rise  to  so  many  costly  suits, 
which  will  hang  on  for  a  long  time,  however  eagerly  I  may 
push  them.  Your  opponents  will  demand  an  inquiry,  which 
we  can  not  refuse,  and  which  may  necessitate  the  sending 
of  a  commission  of  investigation  to  Prussia.  But  even  if  we 
hope  for  the  best;  supposing  that  justice  should  at  once 
recognize  you  as  Colonel  Chabert — can  we  know  how  the 
questions  will  be  settled  that  will  arise  out  of  the  very  inno- 
cent bigamy  committed  by  the  Comtesse  Ferraud? 

"In  your  case,  the  point  of  law  is  unknown  to  the  Code, 
and  can  only  be  decided  as  a  point  in  equity,  as  a  jury  decides 
in  the  delicate  cases  presented  by  the  social  eccentricities  of 
some  criminal  prosecutions.  Now,  you  had  no  children  by 
your  marriage;  M.  le  Comte  Ferraud  has  two.  The  judges 
might  pronounce  against  the  marriage  where  the  family  ties 
are  weakest,  to  the  confirmation  of  that  where  they  are 
stronger,  since  it  was  contracted  in  perfect  good  faith.  Would 
you  be  in  a  very  becoming  moral  position  if  you  insisted,  at 
your  age,  and  in  your  present  circumstances,  in  resuming 
your  rights  over  a  woman  who  no  longer  loves  you?  You 
will  have  both  your  wife  and  her  husband  against  you,  two 
important  persons  who  might  influence  the  Bench.  Thus, 
there  are  many  elements  which  would  prolong  the  case ;  you 
will  have  time  to  grow  old  in  the  bitterest  regrets." 
"And  my  fortune  .^'' 

"Do  you  suppose  you  had  a  fine  fortune?" 
"Had  I  not  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year?" 
"My  dear  Colonel,  in  1799  you  made  a  will  before  your 
marriage,  leaving  one-quarter  of  your  property  to  hospitals." 
"That  is  true." 


104  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"Well^  when  you  were  reported  dead,  it  was  necessary  to 
make  a  valuation,  and  have  a  sale,  to  give  this  quarter  away. 
Your  wife  was  not  particular  about  honesty  to  the  poor.  The 
valuation,  in  which  she  no  doubt  took  care  not  to  include 
the  ready  money  or  jewelry,  or  too  much  of  the  plate,  and 
in  which  the  furniture  would  be  estimated  at  two-thirds  of 
its  actual  cost,  either  to  benefit  her,  or  to  lighten  the  succes- 
sion duty,  and  also  because  a  valuer  can  be  held  responsible 
for  the  declared  value — the  valuation  thus  made  stood  at 
six  hundred  thousand  francs.  Your  wife  had  a  right  to  half 
for  her  share.  Everything  vras  sold  and  bought  in  by  her; 
she  got  something  out  of  it  all,  and  the  hospitals  got  their 
seventy-five  thousand  francs.  Then,  as  the  remainder  went 
to  the  State,  since  you  had  made  no  mention  of  your  wife 
in  your  will,  the  Emperor  restored  to  your  widow  by  decree 
the  residue  which  would  have  reverted  to  the  Exchequer.  So, 
now,  what  can  you  claim  .^  Three  hundred  thousand  francs, 
no  more,  and  minus  the  costs.'' 

**And  you  call  that  justice!"  said  the  Colonel,  in  dismay. 

"Why,  certainly " 

"A  pretty  kind  of  justice!'* 

"So  it  is,  my  dear  Colonel.  You  see,  that  what  you  thought 
so  easy  is  not  so.  Madame  Ferraud  might  even  choose  to 
keep  the  sum  given  to  her  by  the  Emperor." 

"But  she  was  not  a  widow.  The  decree  is  utterly  void " 

"I  agree  with  you.  But  every  case  can  get  a  hearing. 
Listen  to  me.  I  think  that  under  these  circumstances  a  com- 
promise would  be  both  for  her  and  for  you  the  best  solution 
of  the  question.  You  will  gain  by  it  a  more  considerable 
sum  than  you  can  prove  a  right  to." 

"That  would  be  to  sell  my  wife !" 

"With  twenty-four  thousand  francs  a  year  you  could  find 
a  woman  who,  in  the  position  in  which  you  are,  would  suit 
you  better  than  your  own  wife,  and  make  you  happier.     I 


COLONEL  CHABERT  105 

propose  going  this  very  day  to  see  the  Comtesse  Ferraud 
and  sounding  the  ground;  but  I  would  not  take  such  a  step 
without  giving  you  due  notice/' 

"Let  us  go  together." 

"What^  just  as  you  are?"  said  the  lawyer.  "No,  my 
dear  Colonel,  no.     You  might  lose  your  case  on  the  spot." 

"Can  I  possibly  gain  it.^*" 

"On  every  count/'  replied  Derville.  "But,  my  dear  Colonel 
Chabert,  you  overlook  one  thing.  I  am  not  rich;  the  price 
of  my  connection  is  not  wholly  paid  up.  If  the  bench  should 
allow  you  a  maintenance^  that  is  to  say,  a  sum  advanced  on 
your  prospects,  they  will  not  do  so  till  you  have  proved  that 
you  are  Comte  Chabert,  grand  officer  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor." 

"To  be  sure,  I  am  a  grand  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor ; 
I  had  forgotten  that,"  said  he  simply. 

"Well,  until  then,"  Derville  went  on,  "will  you  not  have 
to  engage  pleaders,  to  have  documents  copied,  to  keep  the 
underlings  of  the  law  going,  and  to  support  yourself?  The 
expenses  of  the  preliminary  inquiries  will,  at  a  rough  guess^ 
amount  to  ten  or  twelve  thousand  francs.  I  have  not  so 
much  to  lend  you — I  am  crushed  as  it  is  by  the  enormous 
interest  I  have  to  pay  on  the  money  I  borrowed  to  buy  my 
business;  and  you? — Where  can  you  find  it?" 

Large  tears  gathered  in  the  poor  veteran's  faded  eyes, 
and  rolled  down  his  wil;hered  cheeks.  This  outlook  of  diffi- 
culties discouraged  him.  The  social  and  the  legal  world 
weighed  on  his  breast  like  a  nightmare. 

"I  will  go  to  the  foot  of  the  Vendome^^  column !"  he  cried. 
"I  will  call  out:  I  am  Colonel  Chabert  who  rode  through  the 
Russian  square  at  Eylau! — The  statue — he — he  will  know 
me." 

18.  A  column  in  the  Place  Vendome,  Paris,  erected  by  Napoleon  in 
honor  of  his  army. 


106  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"And  you  will  find  yourself  in  Charenton." 

At  this  terrible  name  the  soldier's  transports  collapsed. 

"And  will  there  be  no  hope  for  me  at  the  Ministry  of 
War?'* 

"The  war  office!"  said  Derville.  "Well^  go  there;  but 
take  a  formal  legal  opinion  with  you^  nullifying  the  certifi- 
cate of  your  death.  The  government  offices  would  be  only 
too  glad  if  they  could  annihilate  the  men  of  the  Empire." 

The  Colonel  stood  for  a  while^  speechless^  motionless^  his 
eyes  fixed,  but  seeing  nothing,  sunk  in  bottomless  despair. 
Military  justice  is  ready  and  swift;  it  decides  with  Turk- 
like finality,  and  almost  always  rightly.  This  was  the  only 
justice  known  to  Chabert.  As  he  saw  the  labyrinth  of  diffi- 
culties into  which  he  must  plunge,  and  how  much  money 
would  be  required  for  the  journey,  tl^e  poor  old  soldier  was 
mortally  hit  in  that  power  peculiar  to  man,  and  called  the 
Will.  He  thought  it  would  be  impossible  to  live  as  party 
to  a  lawsuit;  it  seemed  a  thousand  times  simpler  to  remain 
poor  and  a  beggar,  or  to  enlist  as  a  trooper  if  any  regiment 
would  pass  him. 

His  physical  and  mental  sufferings  had  already  impaired 
his  bodily  health  in  some  of  the  most  important  organs.  He 
was  on  the  verge  of  one  of  those  maladies  for  which  medi- 
cine has  no  name,  and  of  which  the  seat  is  in  some  degree 
variable,  like  the  nervous  system  itself,  the  part  most  fre- 
quently attacked  of  the  whole  human  machine — a  malady 
which  may  be  designated  as  the  heart-sickness  of  the  unfortu- 
nate. However  serious  this  invisible  but  real  disorder  might 
already  be,  it  could  still  be  cured  by  a  happy  issue.  But  a 
fresh  obstacle,  an  unexpected  incident,  would  be  enough  to 
wreck  this  vigorous  constitution,  to  break  the  weakened 
springs,  and  produce  the  hesitancy,  the  aimless,  unfinished 
movements,  which  physiologists  know  well  in  men  under- 
mined by  grief. 


COLONEL  CHABERT  107 

Derville,  detecting  in  his  client  the  symptoms  of  extreme 
dejection^  said  to  him — 

"Take  courage;  the  end  of  the  business  can  not  fail  to 
be  in  your  favor.  Only,  consider  whether  you  can  give  me 
your  whole  confidence  and  blindly  accept  the  result  I  may 
think  best  for  your  interests/* 

"Do  what  you  will/'  said  Chabert. 

"Yes,  but  you  surrender  yourself  to  me  like  a  man  march- 
ing to  his  death/' 

"Must  I  not  be  left  to  live  without  a  position,  without  a 
name  ?     Is  that  endurable  ?" 

"That  is  not  my  view  of  it/'  said  the  lawyer.  "We  will 
try  a  friendly  suit,  to  annul  both  your  death  certificate  and 
your  marriage,  so  as  to  put  you  in  possession  of  your  rights. 
You  may  even,  by  Comte  Ferraud's  intervention,  have  your 
name  replaced  on  the  army  list  as  general,  and  no  doubt  you 
will  get  a  pension/' 

"Well,  proceed  then,"  said  Chabert.  "I  put  myself  entirely 
in  your  hands." 

"I  will  send  you  a  power  of  attorney  to  sign,"  said  Der- 
ville.  "Good-bye.  Keep  up  your  courage.  If  you  want 
money,  rely  on  me." 

Chabert  warmly  wrung  the  lawyer's  hand,  and  remained 
standing  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  not  having  the 
energy  to  follow  him  excepting  with  his  eyes.  Like  all  men 
who  know  but  little  of  legal  matters,  he  was  frightened  by 
this  unforeseen  struggle. 

During  their  interview,  several  times,  the  figure  of  a  man 
posted  in  the  street  had  come  forward  from  behind  one  of 
the  gate-pillars,  watching  for  Derville  to  depart,  and  he 
now  accosted  the  lawyer.  He  was  an  old  man,  wearing  a 
blue  waistcoat  and  a  white-pleated  kilt,  like  a  brewer's;  on 
his  head  was  an  otter-skin  cap.    His  face  was  tanned,  hollow- 


108  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

cheeked^  and  wrinkled^  but  ruddy  on  the  cheekbones  by  hard 
work  and  exposure  to  the  open  air. 

*'Asking  your  pardon,  sir/'  said  he,  taking  Derville  by 
the  arm,  "if  I  take  the  liberty  of  speaking  to  you.  But  I 
fancied,  from  the  look  of  you,  that  you  were  a  friend  of  our 
General's.'* 

"And  what  then?"  replied  Derville.  "What  concern  have 
you  with  him.^ — But  who  are  you.^"  said  the  cautious  lawyer. 

"I  am  Louis  Vergniaud,"  he  at  once  replied.  "I  have  two 
words  to  say  to  you." 

"So  you  are  the  man  who  has  lodged  Comte  Chabert  as  I 
have  found  him.^*" 

"Asking  your  pardon,  sir,  he  has  the  best  room.  I  would 
have  given  mine  if  I  had  had  but  one;  I  could  have  slept 
in  the  stable.  A  man  who  has  suffered  as  he  has,  who  teaches 
my  kids  to  read,  a  general,  an  Egyptian,  the  first  lieutenant 
I  ever  served  under — What  do  you  think.? — Of  us  all,  he  is 
best  served.  I  shared  what  I  had  with  him.  Unfortunately, 
it  is  not  much  to  boast  of — bread,  milk,  eggs.  Well,  well; 
it's  neighbor's  fare,  sir.  And  he  is  heartily  welcome. — But 
he  has  hurt  our  feelings." 

''Her 

"Yes,  sir,  hurt  our  feelings.  To  be  plain  with  you,  I 
have  taken  a  larger  business  than  I  can  manage,  and  he  saw 
it.     Well,  it  worried  him ;  he  must  needs  mind  the  horse !    I 

says  to  him,  'Really,  General '    Bah !  says  he,  *I  am  not 

going  to  eat  my  head  off  doing  nothing.  I  learned  to  rub  a 
horse  down  many  a  year  ago.  I  had  some  bills  out  for  the 
purchase  money  of  my  dairy — a  fellow  named  Grados — Do 
you  know  him,  sir .?" 

"But,  my  good  man,  I  have  not  time  to  listen  to  your  story. 
Only  tell  me  how  the  Colonel  offended  you." 

"He  hurt  our  feelings,  sir,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Louis 
Vergniaud,  and  my  wife  cried  about  it     He  heard  from  our 


COLONEL  CHABERT  109 

neighbors  that  we  had  not  a  sou  to  begin  to  meet  the  bills 
with.  The  old  soldier^  as  he  is^  he  saved  up  all  you  gave 
him^  he  watched  for  the  bill  to  come  in,  and  he  paid  it.  Such 
a  trick !  While  my  wife  and  me,  we  knew  he  had  no  tobacco, 
poor  old  boy,  and  went  without. — Oh !  now — yes,  he  has  his 
cigar  every  morning!  I  would  sell  my  soul  for  it — No,  we 
are  hurt.  Well,  so  I  wanted  to  ask  you — for  he  said  you 
were  a  good  sort — to  lend  us  a  hundred  crowns^^  on  the 
stock,  so  that  we  may  get  him  some  clothes,  and  furnish  his 
room.  He  thought  he  was  getting  us  out  of  debt,  you  see? 
Well,  it's  just  the  other  way;  the  old  man  is  running  us  into 
debt — and  hurt  our  feelings — He  ought  not  to  have  stolen 
a  march  on  us  like  that.  And  we  his  friends,  too ! — On  my 
word  as  an  honest  man,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Louis  Verg- 
niaud,  I  would  sooner  sell  up  and  enlist  than  fail  to  pay  you 
back  your  money " 

Derville  looked  at  the  dairyman,  and  stepped  back  a  few 
paces  to  glance  at  the  house,  the  yard,  the  manure-pool,  the 
cowhouse,  the  rabbits,  the  children. 

**0n  my  honor,  I  believe  it  is  characteristic  of  virtue  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  riches  !"  thought  he. 

"All  right,  you  shall  have  your  hundred  crowns,  and 
more.  But  I  shall  not  give  them  to  you;  the  Colonel  will 
be  rich  enough  to  help,  and  I  will  not  deprive  him  of  the 
pleasure.'* 

"And  will  that  be  soon?" 

"Why,  yes." 

"Ah,  dear  God!  how  glad  my  wife  will  be!"  and  the  cow- 
keeper's  tanned  face  seemed  to  expand. 

"Now,"  said  Derville  to  himself,  as  he  got  into  his  cab 
again,  "let  us  call  on  our  opponent.  We  must  not  show  our 
hand,  but  try  to  see  hers,  and  win  the  game  at  one  stroke. 
She  must  be   frightened.      She   is   a   woman.      Now,   what 

19.  The  French  crown  of  the  18th  century  was  worth  about  $1.12. 


110  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

frightens  women  most?  A  woman  is  afraid  of  nothing 
but   ..." 

And  he  set  to  work  to  study  the  Countess's  position^  falling 
into  one  of  those  brown  studies  to  which  great  politicians 
give  themselves  up  when  concocting  their  own  plans  and  try- 
ing to  guess  the  secrets  of  a  hostile  Cabinet.  Are  not  attor- 
neys, in  a  way,  statesman  in  charge  of  private  affairs  ? 

But  a  brief  survey  of  the  situation  in  which  the  Comte 
Ferraud  and  his  wife  now  found  themselves  is  necessary  for 
a  comprehension  of  the  lawyer's  cleverness. 

Monsieur  le  Comte  Ferraud  was  the  only  son  of  a  former 
Councillor  in  the  old  Parlement  of  Paris,  who  had  emigrated 
during  the  Reign  of  Terror/^  and  so,  though  he  saved  his 
head,  lost  his  fortune.  He  came  back  under  the  Consulate, 
and  remained  persistently  faithful  to  the  cause  of  Louis 
XVIII,  in  whose  circle  his  father  had  moved  before  the  Revo- 
lution. He  thus  was  one  of  the  party  in  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain  which  nobly  stood  out  against  Napoleon's  blandish- 
ments. The  reputation  for  capacity  gained  by  young  Count 
— then  simply  called  Monsieur  Ferraud — made  him  the  ob- 
ject of  the  Emperor's  advances,  for  he  was  often  as  well 
pleased  at  his  conquests  among  the  aristocracy  as  at  gaining 
a  battle.  The  Count  was  promised  the  restitution  of  his 
title,  of  such  of  his  estates  as  had  not  been  sold,  and  he  was 
shown  in  perspective  a  place  in  the  ministry  or  as  senator.. 

The  Emperor  fell. 

At  the  time  of  Comte  Chabert's  death,  M.  Ferraud  was  a 
young  man  of  six-and-twenty,  without  fortune,  of  pleasing 
appearance,  who  had  had  his  successes,  and  whom  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain  had  adopted  as  doing  it  credit;  but 
Madame  la  Comtesse  Chabert  had  managed  to  turn  her  share 
of  her  husband's  fortune  to  such  good  account  that,  after 

20.  That  period  of  the  French  Revolution  when  the  faction  in  power 
made  it  a  principle  to  execute  every  one  considered  hostile  to  their 
rule.     It  lasted  from  March,  1793,  to  the  fall  of  Robespierre  in  1794, 


COLONEL  CHABERT  m 

eighteen  months  of  widowhood,  she  had  about  forty  thousand 
francs  a  year.  Her  marriage  to  the  young  Count  was  not 
regarded  as  news  in  the  circles  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Ger- 
main. Napoleon,  approving  of  this  union,  which  carried  out 
his  idea  of  fusion,  restored  to  Madame  Chabert  the  money 
falling  to  the  Exchequer  under  her  husband's  will ;  but  Na- 
poleon's hopes  were  again  disappointed.  Madame  Ferraud 
was  not  only  in  love  with  her  lover;  she  had  also  been  fas- 
cinated by  the  notion  of  getting  into  the  haughty  society 
which^  in  spite  of  its  humiliation,  was  still  predominant  at  the 
Imperial  Court.  By  this  marriage  all  her  vanities  were  as 
much  gratified  as  her  passions.  She  was  to  become  a  real 
fine  lady.  When  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  understood 
that  the  young  Count's  marriage  did  not  mean  desertion,  its 
drawing-rooms  were  thrown  open  to  his  wife. 

Then  came  the  Restoration.  The  Count's  political  ad- 
vancement was  not  rapid.  He  understood  the  exigencies  of 
the  situation  in  which  Louis  XVIII  found  himself;  he  was 
one  of  the  inner  circle  who  waited  till  the  "Gulf  of  Revolu- 
tion should  be  closed" — for  this  phrase  of  the  King's,  at 
which  the  Liberals  laughed  so  heartily,  had  a  political  sense. 
The  order  quoted  in  the  long  lawyer's  preamble  at  the  be- 
ginning of  this  story  had,  however,  put  him  in  possession  of 
two  tracts  of  forest,  and  of  an  estate  which  had  considerably 
increased  in  value  during  its  sequestration.  At  the  present 
moment,  though  Comte  Ferraud  was  a  Councillor  of  State, 
and  a  Director-General,  he  regarded  his  position  as  merely 
the  first  step  of  his  political  career. 

Wholly  occupied  as  he  was  by  the  anxieties  of  consuming 
ambition,  he  had  attached  to  himself,  as  secretary,  a  ruined 
attorney  named  Delbecq,  k  more  than  clever  man,  versed 
in  all  the  resources  of  the  law,  to  whom  he  left  the  conduct  of 
his  private  affairs.  This  shrewd  practitioner  had  so  well 
understood  his  position  with  the  Count  as  to  be  honest  in  his 


112  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

own  interest.  He  hoped  to  get  some  place  by  his  master's 
influence^  and  he  made  the  Count's  fortune  his  first  care.  His 
conduct  so  effectually  gave  the  lie  to  his  former  life,  that  he 
was  regarded  as  a  slandered  man.  The  Countess,  with  the 
tact  and  shrewdness  of  which  most  women  have  a  share  more 
or  less,  understood  the  man's  motives,  watched  him  quietly, 
and  managed  him  so  well,  that  she  had  made  good  use  of  him 
for  the  augmentation  of  her  private  fortune.  She  had  con- 
trived to  make  Delbecq  believe  that  she  ruled  her  husband, 
and  had  promised  to  get  him  appointed  President  of  an 
inferior  Court  in  some  important  provincial  town,  if  he  de- 
voted himself  entirely  to  her  interests. 

The  promise  of  a  place,  not  dependent  on  changes  of 
ministry,  which  would  allow  of  his  marrying  advantageously, 
and  rising  subsequently  to  a  high  political  position,  by  being 
chosen  Depute,  made  Delbecq  the  Countess's  abject  slave. 
He  had  never  allowed  her  to  miss  one  of  those  favorable 
chances  which  the  fluctuations  of  the  Bourse  and  the  in- 
creased value  of  property  afforded  to  clever  financiers  in 
Paris  during  the  first  three  years  after  the  Restoration.  He 
had  trebled  his  protectress's  capital,  and  all  the  more  easily 
because  the  Countess  had  no  scruples  as  to  the  means  which 
might  make  her  an  enormous  fortune  as  quickly  as  possible. 
The  emoluments  derived  by  the  Count  from  the  places  he 
held  she  spent  on  the  housekeeping,  so  as  to  reinvest  her 
dividends ;  and  Delbecq  lent  himself  to  these  calculations  of 
avarice  without  trying  to  account  for  her  motives.  People 
of  that  sort  never  trouble  themselves  about  any  secrets  of 
which  the  discovery  is  not  necessary  to  their  own  interests. 
And,  indeed,  he  naturally  found  the  reason,  in  the  thirst  for 
money,  which  taints  almost  every  Parisian  woman;  and  as 
a  fine  fortune  wa(s  needed  to  support  the  pretensions  of 
Comte  Ferraud,  the  secretary  sometimes  fancied  that  he  saw 
in  the  Countess's  greed  a  consequence  of  her  devotion  to  a 


COLONEL  CHABERT  113 

husband  with  whom  she  still  was  in  love.  The  Countess 
buried  the  secrets  of  her  conduct  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 
There  lay  the  secrets  of  life  and  death  to  her,  there  lay  the 
turning-point  of  this  history. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1818  the  Restoration  was 
settled  on  an  apparently  immovable  foundation;  its  doc- 
trines of  government,  as  understood  by  lofty  minds,  seemed 
calculated  to  bring  to  France  an  era  of  renewed  prosperity, 
and  Parisian  society  changed  its  aspect.  Madame  la  Comtess^ 
Ferraud  found  that  by  chance  she  had  achieved  for  love  q 
marriage  that  had  brought  her  fortune  and  gratified  ambitioa. 
Still  young  and  handsome,  Madame  Ferraud  played  the  part 
of  a  woman  of  fashion,  and  lived*  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
Court.  Rich  herself,  with  a  rich  husband  who  was  cried  up 
as  one  of  the  ablest  men  of  the  royalist  party,  and,  as  a 
friend  of  the  King,  certain  to  be  made  Minister,  she  belonged 
to  the  aristocracy,  and  shared  its  magnificence.  In  the  midst 
of  this  triumph  she  was  attacked  by  a  moral  canker.  There 
are  feelings  which  women  guess  in  spite  of  the  care  men  take 
to  bury  them.  On  the  first  return  of  the  King,  Comte  Fer- 
raud had  begun  to  regret  his  marriage.  Colonel  Chabert's 
widow  had  not  been  the  means  of  allying  him  to  anybody; 
he  was  alone  and  unsupported  in  steering  his  way  in  a  course 
full  of  shoals  and  beset  by  enemies.  Also,  perhaps,  when 
he  came  to  judge  his  wife  coolly,  he  may  have  discerned  in 
her  certain  vices  of  education  which  made  her  unfit  to  second 
him  in  his  schemes. 

A  speech  he  made,  a  propos  of  Talleyrand's^^  marriage, 
enlightened  the  Countess,  to  whom  it  proved  that  if  he  had 
still  been  a  free  man  she  would  never  have  been  Madame 
Ferraud.  What  woman  could  forgive  this  repentance  ?  Does 
it  not  include  the  germs  of  every  insult,  every  crime,  every 
form  of  repudiation?     But  what  a  wound  must  it  have  left 

21.  A  famous   French    statesman,   1754-1838. 


114  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

in  the  Countess's  hearty  supposing  that  she  lived  in  the  drea  J! 
of  her  first  husband's  return?  She  had  known  that  he  still 
lived^  and  she  had  ignored  him.  Then  during  the  time  when 
she  had  heard  no  more  of  him,  she  had  chosen  to  believe 
that  he  had  fallen  at  Waterloo  with  the  Imperial  Eagle,  at 
the  same  time  as  Boutin.  She  resolved,  nevertheless,  to  bind 
the  Count  to  her  by  the  strongest  of  all  ties,  by  a  chain  of 
gold,  and  vowed  to  be  so  rich  that  her  fortune  might  make 
her  second  marriage  indissoluble,  if  by  chance  Colonel 
Chabert  should  ever  reappear.  And  he  had  reappeared;  and 
she  could  not  explain  to  herself  why  the  struggle  she  dreaded 
had  not  already  begun.  Suffering,  sickness,  had  perhaps 
delivered  her  from  that  man.  Perhaps  he  was  half  mad, 
and  Charenton  might  yet  do  her  justice.  She  had  not  chosen 
to  take  either  Delbecq  or  the  police  into  her  confidence,  for 
fear  of  putting  herself  in  their  power,  or  of  hastening  the 
catastrophe.  There  are  in  Paris  many  women  who,  like  the 
Countess  Ferraud,  live  with  an  unknown  moral  monster,  or 
on  the  brink  of  an  abyss;  a  callus  forms  over  the  spot  that 
tortures  them,  and  they  can  still  laugh  and  enjoy  them- 
selves. 

"There  is  something  very  strange  in  Comte  Ferraud's 
position,'*  said  Derville  to  himself,  on  emerging  from  his 
long  reverie,  as  his  cab  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  Hotel 
Ferraud  in  the  Rue  de  Varennes.  "How  is  it  that  he,  so  rich 
as  he  is,  and  such  a  favorite  with  the  King,  is  not  yet  a  peer 
of  France?  It  may,  to  be  sure,  be  true  that  the  King,  as 
Mme.  de  Grandlieu  was  telling  me,  desires  to  keep  up  the 
value  of  the  pairie^^  by  not  bestowing  it  right  and  left.  And, 
after  all,  the  son  of  a  Councillor  of  the  Parlement  is  not  a 
Crillon  nor  a  Rohan. ^^  A  Comte  Ferraud  can  only  get  into 
the  Upper  Chamber  surreptitiously.     But  if  his  marriage 

22.  The  name  of  the  rank  formerly  given  to  a  member  of  the  Upper 
Chamber. 

23.  Two  French  generals  of  the  16th  and  17th  centuries. 


COLONEL  CHABERT  115 

were  annulled,  could  he  not  get  the  dignity  of  some  old  peer 
who  has  only  daughters  transferred  to  himself,  to  the  King's 
great  satisfaction?  At  any  rate  this  will  be  a  good  bogey  to 
put  forward  and  frighten  the  Countess/'  thought  he  as  he 
went  up  the  steps. 

Derville  had  without  knowing  it  laid  his  finger  on  the 
hidden  wound,  put  his  hand  on  the  canker  that  consumed 
Madame  Ferraud. 

She  received  him  in  a  pretty  winter  dining-room,  where 
she  was  at  breakfast,  while  playing  with  a  monkey  tethered 
by  a  chain  to  a  little  pole  with  climbing  bars  of  iron.  The 
Countess  was  in  an  elegant  wrapper;  the  curls  of  her  hair, 
carelessly  pinned  up,  escaped  from  a  cap,  giving  her  an 
arch  look.  She  was  fresh  and  smiling.  Silver,  gilding,  and 
mother-of-pearl  shone  on  the  table,  and  all  about  the  room 
were  rare  plants  growing  in  magnificent  china  jars.  As  he 
saw  Colonel  Chabert's  wife,  rich  with  his  spoil,  in  the  lap  of 
luxury  and  the  height  of  fashion,  while  he,  poor  wretch,  was 
living  with  a  poor  dairyman  among  the  beasts,  the  lawyer 
said  to  himself — 

*'The  moral  of  all  this  is  that  a  pretty  woman  will  never 
acknowledge  as  her  husband,  nor  even  as  a  lover,  a  man  in 
an  old  box-coat,  a  tow  wig,  and  boots  with  holes  in  them." 

A  mischievous  and  bitter  smile  expressed  the  feelings,  half 
philosophical  and  half  satirical,  which  such  a  man  was  cer- 
tain to  experience — a  man  well  situated  to  know  the  truth 
of  things  in  spite  of  the  lies  behind  which  most  families  in 
Paris  hide  their  mode  of  life. 

"Good  morning.  Monsieur  Derville,"  said  she,  giving  the 
monkey  some  coffee  to  drink.  ^ 

**Madame,"  said  he,  a  little  sharply,  for  the  light  tone  in 
which  she  spoke  jarred  on  him,  "I  have  come  to  speak  with 
you  on  a  very  serious  matter." 

"I  am  so  grieved,  M.  le  Comte  is  away " 


IIQ  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES  Ml 

"I,  Madame,  am  delighted.  It  would  be  grievous  if  he 
could  be  present  at  our  interview.  Besides,  I  am  informed 
through  M.  Delbecq  that  you  like  to  manage  your  own  busi- 
ness without  troubling  the  Count." 

*'Then  I  will  send  for  Delbecq/'  said  she. 

"He  would  be  of  no  use  to  you,  clever  as  he  is,"  replied 
Derville.  "Listen  to  me,  Madame;  one  word  will  be  enough 
to  make  you  grave.     Colonel  Chabert  is  alive !" 

"Is  it  by  telling  me  such  nonsense  as  that  that  you  think 
you  can  make  me  grave  .^"  said  she  with  a  shout  of  laughter. 
But  she  was  suddenly  quelled  by  the  singular  penetration 
of  the  fixed  gaze  which  Derville  turned  on  her,  seeming  to 
read  to  the  bottom  of  her  soul. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  with  cold  and  piercing  solemnity,  "you 
know  not  the  extent  of  the  danger  which  threatens  you.  I 
need  say  nothing  of  the  indisputable  authenticity  of  the  evi- 
dence nor  of  the  fullness  of  proof  which  testifies  to  the  iden- 
tity of  Comte  Chabert.  I  am  not,  as  you  know,  the  man  to 
take  up  a  bad  cause.  If  you  resist  our  proceedings  to  show 
that  the  certificate  of  death  was  false,  you  will  lose  that  first 
case,  and  that  matter  once  settled,  we  shall  gain  every  point." 

"What,  then,  do  you  wish  to  discuss  with  me  ?" 

"Neither  the  Colonel  nor  yourself.  Nor  need  I  allude 
to  the  briefs  which  clever  advocates  may  draw  up  when 
armed  with  the  curious  facts  of  this  case,  or  the  advantage 
they  may  derive  from  the  letters  you  received  from  your 
first  husband  before  your  marriage  to  your  second." 

"It  is  false,"  she  cried,  with  the  violence  of  a  spoiled 
woman.  "I  never  had  a  letter  from  Comte  Chabert;  and 
if  someone  is  pretending  to  be  the  Colonel,  it  is  some  swindler, 
some  returned  convict,  like  Coignard  perhaps.  It  makes  me 
shudder  only  to  think  of  it.  Can  the  Colonel  rise  from  theB 
dead.  Monsieur.?*  Bonaparte  sent  an  aide-de-camp  to  inquire 
for  me  on  his  death,  and  to  this  day  I  draw  the  pension  of 


COLONEL  CHABERT  117 

three  thousand  francs  granted  to  his  widow  by  the  Govern- 
ment. I  have  been  perfectly  in  the  right  to  turn  away  all  the 
Chaberts  who  have  ever  come^  as  I  shall  all  who  may  come/\ 

*'Happily  we  are  alone^  Madame.  We  can  tell  lies  at 
our  ease/'  said  he  coolly,  and  finding  it  amusing  to  lash  up 
the  Countess'  rage  so  as  to  lead  her  to  betray  herself,  by 
tactics  familiar  to  lawyers,  who  are  accustomed  to  keep 
cool  when  their  opponents  or  their  clients  are  in  a  passion. 
*'Well,  then,  we  must  fight  it  out,''  thought  he,  instantly 
hitting  on  a  plan  to  entrap  her  and  show  her  her  weakness. 

**The  proof  that  you  received  the  first  letter,  Madame,  is 
that  it  contained  some  securities " 

"Oh,  as  to  securities — that  it  certainly  did  not." 

"Then  you  received  the  letter,"  said  Derville,  smiling. 
"You  are  caught,  Madame,  in  the  first  snare  laid  for 
you  by  an  attorney,  and  you  fancy  you  could  fight  against 
Justice " 

The  Countess  colored,  and  then  turned  pale,  hiding  her 
face  in  her  hands.  Then  she  shook  off  her  shame,  and 
retorted  with  the  natural  impertinence  of  such  women,  "Since 
you  are  the  so-called  Chabert's  attorney,  be  so  good  as 
to " 

"Madame,"  said  Derville,  "I  am  at  this  moment  as  much 
your  lawyer  as  I  am  Colonel  Chabert's.  Do  you  suppose 
I  want  to  lose  so  valuable  a  client  as  you  are  ?  But  you  are 
not  listening." 

"Nay,  speak  on  Monsieur,"  said  she  graciously. 

"Your  fortune  came  to  you  from  M.  le  Comte  Chabert, 
and  you  cast  him  off.  Your  fortune  is  immense,  and  you 
leave  him  to  beg.  An  advocate  can  be  very  eloquent  when 
a  cause  is  eloquent  in  itself;  there  are  here  circumstances 
which  might  turn  public  opinion  strongly  against  you." 

"But,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Comtesse,  provoked  by  the 
way  in  which  Derville  turned  and  laid  her  on  the  gridiron. 


IIQ  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES  |j 

"even  if  I  grant  that  your  M.  Chabert  is  living,  the  law  will 
uphold  my  second  marriage  on  account  of  the  children,  and 
I  shall  get  off  with  the  restitution  of  two  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  thousand  francs  to  M.  Chabert." 

"It  is  impossiblie  to  foresee  what  view  the  Bench  may  take 
of  the  question.  If  on  one  side  we  have  a  mother  and 
children,  on  the  other  we  have  an  old  man  crushed  by 
sorrows,  made  old  by  your  refusals  to  know  him.  Where 
is  he  to  find  a  wife.^  Can  the  judges  contravene  the  law? 
Your  marriage  with  Colonel  Chabert  has  priority  on  its  side 
and  every  legal  right.  But  if  you  appear  under  disgraceful 
colors,  you  might  have  an  unlooked-for  adversary.  That, 
Madame,  is  the  danger  against  which  I  would  warn  you." 

**And  who  he  is.^" 

"Comte  Ferraud." 

"Monsieur  Ferraud  has  too  great  an  affection  for  me,  too 
much  respect  for  the  mother  of  his  children " 

"Do  not  talk  of  such  absurd  things,"  interrupted  Derville, 
"to  lawyers,  who  are  accustomed  to  read  hearts  to  the  bottom. 
At  this  instant  Monsieur  Ferraud  has  not  the  slightest  wish 
to  annul  your  union,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  he  adores  you ; 
but  if  some  one  were  to  tell  him  that  his  marriage  is  void, 
that  his  wife  will  be  called  before  the  bar  of  public  opinion 
as  a  criminal " 

"He  would  defend  me.  Monsieur." 

"No,  Madame." 

"What  reason  could  he  have  for  deserting  me.  Monsieur  ?" 

"That  he  would  be  free  to  marry  the  only  daughter  of  a 
peer  of  France,  whose  title  would  be  conferred  on  him  by 
patent  from  the  King." 

The  Countess  turned  pale. 

"A  hit!"  said  Derville  to  himself.     "I  have  you  on  the  f 
hip;  the  poor  Colonel's  case  is  won."      "Besides,  Madame," 
he  went  on  aloud,  "he  would  feel  all  the  less  remorse  because 


COLONEL  CHABERT  1^^^ 

a  man  covered  with  glory — a  General^  Count,  Grand  Cross 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor — is  not  such  a  bad  alternative ;  and 
if  that  man  insisted  on  his  wife's  returning  to  him '* 

^'Enough,  enough,  Monsieur!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  will 
never  have  any  lawyer  but  you.    What  is  to  be  done?" 

"Compromise!"  said  Derville. 

''Does  he  still  love  me.^*"  she  said. 

"Well,  I  do  not  think  he  can  do  otherwise." 

The  Countess  raised  her  head  at  these  words.  A  flash  of 
hope  shone  in  her  eyes ;  she  thought  perhaps  that  she  could 
speculate  on  her  first  husband's  affection  to  gain  her  cause 
by  some  feminine  cunning. 

"I  shall  await  your  orders,  Madame,  to  know  whether  I 
am  to  report  our  proceedings  to  you,  or  if  you  will  come  to 
my  office  to  agree  to  the  terms  of  a  compromise,"  said  Der- 
ville, taking  leave. 

A  week  after  Derville  had  paid  these  two  visits,  on  a  fine 
morning  in  June,  the  husband  and  wife,  who  had  been  sepa- 
rated by  an  almost  supernatural  chance,  started  from  the 
opposite  ends  of  Paris  to  meet  in  the  office  of  the  lawyer 
who  was  engaged  by  both.  The  supplies  liberally  advanced 
by  Derville  to  Colonel  Chabert  had  enabled  him  to  dress  as 
suited  his  position  in  life,  and  the  dead  man  arrived  in  a 
very  decent  cab.  He  wore  a  wig  suited  to  his  face,  was 
dressed  in  blue  cloth  with  white  linen,  and  wore  under  his 
waistcoat  the  broad  red  ribbon  of  the  higher  grade  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  In  resuming  the  habits  of  wealth  he  had 
recovered  his  soldierly  style.  He  held  himself  up ;  his  face, 
grave  and  mysterious-looking,  reflected  his  happiness  and  all 
his  hopes,  and  seemed  to  have  acquired  youth  and  im'pasto,^^ 
to  borrow  a  picturesque  word  from  the  painter's  art.  He 
was  no  more  like  the  Chabert  of  the  old  box-coat  than  a 
cartwheel  double  sou  is  like  a  newly  coined  forty- franc  piece. 

24.  His  face  had  color,  as  though  it  were  painted. 


120  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


« 


The  passer-by,  only  to  see  him,  would  have  recognized  at 
once  one  of  the  noble  wrecks  of  our  old  army,  one  of  the 
heroic  men  on  whom  our  national  glory  is  reflected,  as 
a  splinter  of  ice  on  which  the  sun  shines  seems  to  reflect 
every  beam.  These  veterans  are  at  once  a  picture  and  a 
book. 

When  the  Count  jumped  out  of  his  carriage  to  go  into 
Derville's  office,  he  did  it  as  lightly  as  a  young  man.  Hardly 
had  his  cab  moved  off  when  a  smart  brougham  drove  up, 
splendid  with  coats  of  arms.  Madame  la  Comtesse  Ferraud 
stepped  out  in  a  dress  which,  though  simple,  was  cleverly 
designed  to  show  how  youthful  her  figure  was.  She  wore  a 
pretty  drawn  bonnet  lined  with  pink,  which  framed  her  face 
to  perfection,  softening  its  outlines  and  making  it  look 
younger. 

If  the  clients  were  rejuvenescent,  the  oflfice  was  unaltered, 
and  presented  the  same  picture  as  that  described  at  the 
beginning  of  this  story.  Simonnin  was  eating  his  breakfast, 
his  shoulder  leaning  against  the  window,  which  was  then 
open,  and  he  was  staring  up  at  the  blue  sky  in  the  opening 
of  the  courtyard  enclosed  by  four  gloomy  houses. 

"Ah,  ha  \"  cried  the  little  clerk,  "who  will  bet  an  evening 
at  the  play  that  Colonel  Chabert  is  a  General,  and  wears  a 
red  ribbon  }** 

"The  chief  is  a  great  magician,"  said  Godeschal. 

"Then  there  is  no  trick  to  play  on  him  this  time.^"  asked 
Desroches. 

"His  wife  has  taken  that  in  hand,  the  Comtesse  Ferraud," 
said  Boucard. 

"What  ne5it?"  said  Godeschal.  "Is  Comtesse  Ferraud 
required  to  belong  to  two  men.^*" 

"Here  she  is,"  answered  Simonnin.  fl 

At  this  moment  the  Colonel  came  in  and  asked  for  Derville. 

"He  is  at  home,  sir,"  said  Simonnin. 


COLONEL  CHABERT  121 

"So  you  are  not  deaf,  you  young  rogue!''  said  Chabert, 
taking  the  gutter-jumper  by  the  ear  and  twisting  it,  to  the 
delight  of  the  other  clerks,  who  began  to  laugh,  looking  at 
the  Colonel  with  the  curious  attention  due  to  so  singular  a 
personage. 

Comte  Chabert  was  in  Derville*s  private  room  at  the 
moment  when  his  wife  came  in  by  the  door  of  the  office. 

"I  say,  Boucard,  there  is  going  to  be  a  queer  scene  in  the 
.  chief's  room !  There  is  a  woman  who  can  spend  her  days 
alternately,  the  odd  with  Comte  Ferraud,  and  the  even  with 
Comte  Chabert." 

"And  in  leap  year,"  said  Godeschal,  "they  must  settle  the 
count  between  them." 

"Silence,  gentlemen,  you  can  be  heard !"  said  Boucard 
severely.  *  "I  never  was  in  an  office  where  there  was  so  much 
jesting  as  there  is  here  over  the  clients." 

Derville  had  made  the  Colonel  retire  to  the  bedroom  when 
the  Countess  was  admitted. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "not  knowing  whether  it  would  be 
agreeable  to  you  to  meet  M.  le  Comte  Chabert,  I  have  placed 
you  apart.     If,  however,  you  should  wish  it " 

"It  is  an  attention  for  which  I  am  obliged  to  you." 

"I  have  drawn  up  the  memorandum  of  an  agreement  of 
which  you  and  M.  Chabert  can  discuss  the  conditions,  here 
and  now.  I  will  go  alternately  to  him  and  to  you,  and 
explain  your  views  respectively." 

"Let  me  see.  Monsieur,"  said  the  Countess  impatiently. 

Derville  read  aloud — 

"  ^Between  the  undersigned : 

"  *M.  Hyacinthe  Chabert,  Count,  Marechal  de  Camp,  and 
Grand  Officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  living  in  Paris,  Rue 
du  Petit  Banquier,  on  the  one  part; 

"  'And  Madame  Rose  Chapotel,  wife  of  the  aforesaid  M. 
le  Comte  Chabert,  nee 


122  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"Pass  over  the  preliminaries/'  said  she.  "Come  to  the 
conditions." 

"Madame/*  said  the  lawyer,  "the  preamble  briefly  sets 
forth  the  position  in  which  you  stand  to  each  other.  Then, 
by  the  first  clause,  you  acknowledge,  in  the  presence  of  three 
witnesses,  of  whom  two  shall  be  notaries,  and  one  the 
dairyman  with  whom  your  husband  has  been  lodging,  to  all 
of  whom  your  secret  is  known,  and  who  will  be  absolutely 
silent — you  acknowledge,  I  say,  that  the  individual  desig- 
nated in  the  documents  subjoined  to  the  deed,  and  whose 
identity  is  to  be  further  proved  by  an  act  of  recognition 
prepared  by  your  notary,  Alexandre  Crottat,  is  your  first 
husband,  Comte  Chabert.  By  the  second  clause  Comte 
Chabert,  to  secure  your  happiness,  will  undertake  to  assert 
his  rights  only  under  certain  circumstances  set  forth  in  the 
deed.  And  these/'  said  Derville,  in  a  parenthesis,  "are 
none  other  than  a  failure  to  carry  out  the  conditions  of  this 
secret  agreement. — M.  Chabert,  on  his  part,  agrees  to  accept 
judgment  on  a  friendly  suit,  by  which  his  certificate  of  death 
shall  be  annulled,  and  his  marriage  dissolved." 

"That  will  not  suit  me  in  the  least,"  said  the  Countess 
with  surprise.    "I  will  be  a  party  to  no  suit ;  you  know  why." 

"By  the  third  clause,"  Derville  went  on,  with  imperturba- 
ble coolness,  you  pledge  yourself  to  secure  to  Hyacinthe 
Comte  Chabert  an  income  of  twenty-four  thousand  francs 
on  government  stock  held  in  his  name,  to  revert  to  you  at 
his  death " 

"But  it  is  much  too  dear !"  exclaimed  the  Countess. 

"Can  you  compromise  the  matter  cheaper?" 

"Possibly." 

"But  what  do  you  want,  Madame  ?" 

"I  want — I  will  not  have  a  lawsuit.     I  want- " 

"You  want  him  to  remain  dead.^*"  said  Derville,  inter- 
rupting her  hastily. 


I 


COLONEL  CHABERT  123 

"Monsieur/'  said  the  Countess,  "if  twenty-four  thousand 
francs  a  year  are  necessary,  we  will  go  to  law " 

"Yes,  we  will  go  to  law/'  said  the  Colonel  in  a  deep  voice, 
as  he  opened  the  door  and  stood  before  his  wife,  with  one 
hand  in  his  waistcoat  and  the  other  hanging  by  his  «ide — 
an  attitude  to  which  the  recollection  of  his  adventure  gave 
horrible  significance. 

"It  is  he,**  said  the  Countess  to  herself. 

"Too  dear  V  the  old  soldier  exclaimed.  "I  have  given 
you  near  on  a  million,  and  you  are  cheapening  my  misfor- 
tunes. Very  well;  now  I  will  have  you — you  and  your 
fortune.     Our  goods  are  in  common,  our    marriage    is    not 

dissolved '* 

"But  Monsieur  is  not  Colonel  Chabert!**  cried  the  Countess, 
in  feigned  amazement. 

"Indeed !"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  tone  of  intense  irony. 
"Do  you  want  proofs  ?  I  found  you  in  the  Palais  RoyaP^ — *' 

The  Countess  turned  pale.  Seeing  her  grow  white  under 
her  rouge,  the  old  soldier  paused,  touched  by  the  acute 
suffering  he  was  inflicting  on  the  woman  he  had  once  so 
ardently  loved ;  but  she  shot  such  a  venomous  glance  at  him 
that  he  abruptly  went  on: 

"You  were  with  La " 

"Allow  me.  Monsieur  Derville,**  said  the  Countess  to  the 
lawyer.  "You  must  give  me  leave  to  retire.  I  did  not  come 
here  to  listen  to  such  dreadful  things." 

She  rose  and  went  out.  Derville  rushed  after  her;  but 
the  Countess  had  taken  wings  and  seemed  to  have  flown 
from  the  place. 

On  returning  to  his  private  room  he  found  the  Colonel  in 

a  towering  rage,  striding  up  and  down. 

25.  A  palace  built  by  Richelieu  and  afterwards  left  to  Louis  XIV. 
Since  then  various  parts  of  it  have  been  put  to  dififerent  uses,  but  it 
has  always  been  noted  for  its  galleries  and  arcades,  and  shops  of  all 
kinds,  especially  jewelry  shops.  The  implication  of  the  Colonel  is  that 
his  wife  had  been  a  shop  girl. 


124 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


"In  those  times  a  man  took  his  wife  where  he  chose/' 
said  he.  "But  I  was  foolish  and  chose  badly;  I  trusted  to 
appearances.     She  has  no  heart.*' 

"Well,  Colonel,  was  I  not  right  to  beg  you  not  to  come? 
I  am  now  positive  of  your  identity;  when  you  came  in,  the 
Countess  gave  a  little  start,  of  which  the  meaning  was 
unequivocal.  But  you  have  lost  your  chances.  Your  wife 
knows  that  you  are  unrecognizable." 

"I  will  kill  her!*' 

"Madness!  You  will  be  caught  and  executed  like  any 
common  wretch.  Besides,  you  might  miss !  That  would  be 
unpardonable.  A  man  must  not  miss  his  shot  when  he  wants 
to  kill  his  wife.  Let  me  set  things  straight;  you  are  only 
a  big  child.  Go  now.  Take  care  of  yourself ;  she  is  capable 
of  setting  some  trap  for  you  and  shutting  you  up  in  Charen- 
ton.  I  will  notify  her  of  our  proceedings  to  protect  you 
against  a  surprise." 

The  unhappy  Colonel  obeyed  his  young  benefactor,  and 
went  away,  stammering  apologies.  He  slowly  went  down 
the  dark  staircase,  lost  in  gloomy  thoughts,  and  crushed 
perhaps  by  the  blow  just  dealt  him — the  most  cruel  he  could 
feel,  the  thrust  that  could  most  deeply  pierce  his  heart — 
when  he  heard  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress  on  the  lowest 
landing,  and  his  wife  stood  before  him. 

"Come,  Monsieur,"  said  she,  taking  his  arm  with  a  gesture 
like  those  familiar  to  him  of  old.  Her  action  and  the  accent 
of  her  voice,  which  had  recovered  its  graciousness,  were 
enough  to  allay  the  Colonel's  wrath,  and  he  allowed  himself 
to  be  led  to  the  carriage. 

"Well,  get  in"  said  she,  when  the  footman  had  let  downi 
the  step. 

And  as  if  by  magic  he  found  himself  sitting  by  his  wifec 
in  the  brougham. 

"Where  to?"  asked  the  servant. 


COLONEL  CHABERT  125 

J,   "To  Groslay/'  said  she. 

The  horses  started  at  once,  and  carried  them  all  across 
Paris. 

* 'Monsieur/'  said  the  Countess^  in  a  tone  of  voice  which 
betrayed  one  of  those  emotions  which  are  rare  in  our  lives, 
and  which  agitate  every  part  of  our  being.    At  such  moments 
the  heart,  fibers,  nerves,  countenance,  soul,  and  body,  every- 
thing, every  pore  even,  feels  a  thrill.     Life  no  longer  seems 
to  be  within  us ;  it  flows  out,  springs  forth,  is  communicated 
as  by  contagion,  transmitted  by  a  look,  a  tone  of  voice,  a 
gesture,  impressing  our   will  on   others.      The  old   soldier 
started  on  hearing  this  single  word,  this  first,  terrible  "Mon- 
sieur \"    But  still  it  was  at  once  a  reproach  and  a  pardon,  a 
I  hope  and  a  despair,  a  question  and  an  answer.     This  word 
i  included  them  all ;  none  but  an  actress  could  have  thrown 
so  much  eloquence,  so  many  feelings  into  a  single  word. 
^  Truth  is  less  complete  in  its  utterance ;  it  does  not  put  every- 
'  thing  on  the  outside ;  it  allows  us  to  see  what  is  within.    The 
Colonel    was    filled    with    remorse    for    his    suspicions,   his 
demands,  and  his  anger;   he  looked  down  not  to  betray  his 
agitation. 

^'Monsieur,*'  repeated  she,  after  an  imperceptible  pause, 
"I  knew  you  at  once.'* 

"Rosine,"  said  the  old  soldier,  *'those  words  contain  the 
only  balm  that  can  help  me  to  forget  my  misfortunes." 

Two  large  tears  rolled  hot  on  to  his  wife's  hands,  which 
he  pressed  to  show  his  paternal  affection. 

"Monsieur,"  she  went  on,  "could  you  not  have  guessed 
5'what  it  cost  me  to  appear  before  a  stranger  in  a  position  so 
f  false  as  mine  now  is.^  If  I  have  to  blush  for  it,  at  least  let 
iit  be  in  the  privacy  of  my  family.  Ought  not  such  a  secret 
^to  remain  buried  in  our  hearts  ?  You  will  forgive  me,  I  hope, 
tfor  my  apparent  indifference  to  the  woes  of  a  Chabert  in 
iwhose  existence  I  could  not  possibly  believe.    I  received  your 


;^26  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES  11 

letters/*  she  hastily  added,  seeing  in  his  face  the  objection 
it  expressed,  **but  they  did  not  reach  me  till  thirteen  months 
after  the  battle  of  Eylau.  They  were  opened,  dirty,  the 
writing  was  unrecognizable;  and  after  obtaining  Napoleon's 
signature  to  my  second  marriage  contract,  I  could  not  help 
believing  that  some  clever  swindler  wanted  to  make  a  fool 
of  me.  Therefore,  to  avoid  disturbing  Monsieur  Ferraud's 
peace  of  mind,  and  disturbing  family  ties,  I  was  obliged  to 
take  precautions  against  a  pretended  Chabert.  Was  I  not 
right,  I  ask  you?'* 

"Yes,  you  were  right.  It  was  I  who  was  the  idiot,  the 
owl,  the  dolt,  not  to  have  calculated  better  what  the  conse- 
quences of  such  a  position  might  be.  But  where  are  we 
going?"  he  asked,  seeing  that  they  had  reached  the  barrier  of 
La  Chapelle. 

"To  my  country  house  near  Groslay,  in  the  valley  of 
Montmorency.  There,  Monsieur,  we  will  consider  the  steps 
to  be  taken.  I  know  my  duties.  Though  I  am  yours  by 
right,  I  am  no  longer  yours  in  fact.  Can  you  wish  that  we 
should  become  the  talk  of  Paris?  We  need  not  inform  the 
public  of  a  situation,  which  for  me  has  its  ridiculous  side, 
and  let  us  preserve  our  dignity.  You  still  love  me,"  she  said, 
with  a  sad,  sweet  gaze  at  the  Colonel,  "but  have  not  I  been 
authorized  to  form  other  ties?  In  so  strange  a  position, 
a  secret  voice  bids  me  trust  to  your  kindness,  which  is  so 
well  known  to  me.  Can  I  be  wrong  in  taking  you  as  the 
sole  arbiter  of  my  fate?  Be  at  once  judge  and  party  to  the 
suit.  I  trust  in  your  noble  character;  you  will  be  generous 
enough  to  forgive  me  for  the  consequences  of  faults  com- 
mitted in  innocence.  I  may  then  confess  to  you:  I  love  M. 
Ferraud.  I  believed  that  I  had  a  right  to  love  him.  I  do  «| 
not  blush  to  make  this  confession  to  you;  even  if  it  offends! 
you,  it  does  not  disgrace  us.  I  cannot  conceal  the  facts. 
When  fate  made  me  a  widow,  I  was  not  a  mother." 


COLONEL  CHABERT  127. 

The  Colonel  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  bade  his  wife  be 
silent,  and  for  a  mile  and  a  half  they  sat  without  speaking  a 
single  word.  Chabert  could  fancy  he  saw  the  two  little  ones 
before  him. 

"Rosine." 

''Monsieur.^" 

"The  dead  are  very  wrong  to  come  to  life  again." 

"Oh,  Monsieur,  no,  no!  Do  not  think  me  ungrateful. 
Only,  you  find  me  a  lover,  a  mother,  while  you  left  me  merely 
a  wife.  Though  it  is  no  longer  in  my  power  to  love,  I  know 
how  much  I  owe  you,  and  I  can  still  offer  you  all  the  affection 
of  a  daughter." 

"Rosine,"  said  the  old  man  in  a  softened  tone,  "I  no 
longer  feel  any  resentment  against  you.  We  will  forget 
everything,"  he  added,  with  one  of  those  smiles  which  always 
reflect  a  noble  soul.  "I  have  not  so  little  delicacy  as  to 
demand  the  mockery  of  love  from  a  wife  who  no  longer 
loves  me.'* 

The  Countess  gave  him  a  flashing  look  full  of  such  deep 
gratitude  that  poor  Chabert  would  have  been  glad  to  sink 
again  into  his  grave  at  Eylau.  Some  men  have  a  soul  strong 
enough  for  such  self-devotion,  of  which  the  whole  reward 
consists  in  the  assurance  that  they  have  made  the  person 
they  love  happy. 

"My  dear  friend,  we  will  talk  all  this  over  later  when  our 
hearts  have  rested,"  said  the  Countess. 

The  conversation  turned  to  other  subjects,  for  it  was 
impossible  to  dwell  very  long  on  this  one.  Though  the 
couple  came  back  again  and  again  to  their  singular  position, 
either  by  some  allusion  or  of  serious  purpose,  they  had  a 
delightful  drive,  recalling  the  events  of  their  former  life 
together  and  the  times  of  the  Empire.  The  Countess  knew 
I  how  to  lend  peculiar  charm  to  her  reminiscences,  and  gave 

tthe  conversation  the  tinge  of  melancholy  that  was  needed  to 


J28  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

keeji  it  serious.  She  revived  his  love  without  awakening  his 
desires,  and  allowed  her  first  husband  to  discern  the  mental 
wealth  she  had  acquired  while  trying  to  accustom  him  to 
moderate  his  pleasure  to  that  which  a  father  may  feel  in  the 
society  of  a  favorite  daughter. 

The  Colonel  had  known  the  Countess  of  the  Empire;  he 
found  her  a  Countess  of  the  Restoration. 

At  last,  by  a  cross-road,  they  arrived  at  the  entrance  to 
a  large  park  lying  in  the  little  valley  which  divides  the 
heights  of  Margency  from  the  pretty  village  of  Groslay. 
The  Countess  had  there  a  delightful  house,  where  the  Colonel 
on  arriving  found  everything  in  readiness  for  his  stay  there, 
as  well  as  for  his  wife's.*  Misfortune  is  a  kind  of  talisman 
whose  virtue  consists  in  its  power  to  confirm  our  original! 
nature;  in  some  men  it  increases  their  distrust  and  ma- 
lignancy, just  as  it  improves  the  goodness  of  those  who  have 
a  kind  heart. 

Sorrow  had  made  the  Colonel  even  more  helpful  and  goodi 
than  he  had  always  been,  and  he  could  understand  some 
secrets  of  womanly  distress  which  are  unrevealed  to  most 
men.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  his  loyal  trustfulness,  he 
could  not  help  saying  to  his  wife — 

**Then  you  felt  quite  sure  you  would  bring  me  here.^'* 

"Yes,"  replied  she,  "if  I  found  Colonel  Chabert  in  Der-^ 
ville's  client.''  : 

The  appearance  of  truth  she  contrived  to  give  to  thiss 
answer  dissipated  the  slight  suspicions  which  the  Colonel 
was  ashamed  to  have  felt.  For  three  days  the  Countess  was 
quite  charming  to  her  first  husband.  By  tender  attentions 
and  unfailing  sweetness  she  seemed  anxious  to  wipe  out  the 
memory  of  the  sufferings  he  had  endured,  and  to  earn  for-, 
giveness  for  the  woes  which,  as  she  confessed,  she  had  inn( 
cently  caused  him.  She  delighted  in  displaying  for  him  th 
charms  she  knew  he  took  pleasure  in,  while  at  the  same  time 


COLONEL  CHABERT  129 

she  assumed  a  kind  of  melancholy;  for  men  are  more  espe- 
cially accessible  to  certain  ways,  certain  graces  of  the  heart 
or  of  the  mind  which  they  cannot  resist.  She  ain\ed  at 
interesting  him  in  her  position,  and  appealing  to  his  feelings 
so  far  as  to  take  possession  of  his  mind  and  control  him 
despotically. 

Ready  for  anything  to  attain  her  ends,  she  did  not  yet 
know  what  she  was  to  do  with  this  man ;  but  at  any  rate  she 
meant  to  annihilate  him  socially.  On  the  evening  of  the 
third  day  she  felt  that  in  spite  of  her  eiforts  she  could  not 
conceal  her  uneasiness  as  to  the  results  of  her  maneuvers. 
To  give  herself  a  minute's  reprieve,  she  went  up  to  her 
room,  sat  down  before  her  writing-table,  and  laid  aside  the 
mask  of  composure  which  she  wore  in  Chabert's  presence, 
like  an  actress  who,  returning  to  her  dressing-room  after  a 
fatiguing  fifth  act,  drops  half  dead,  leaving  with  the  audi- 
ence an  image  of  herself  which  she  no  longer  resembles. 
She  proceeded  to  finish  a  letter  she  had  begun  to  Delbecq, 
whom  she  desired  to  go  in  her  name  and  demand  of  Derville 
the  deeds  relating  to  Colonel  Chabert,  to  copy  them,  and  to 
ome  to  her  at  once  to  Groslay.  She  had  hardly  finished 
when  she  heard  the  Colonel's  step  in  the  passage ;  uneasy  at 
ber  absence,  he  had  come  to  look  for  her. 

"Alas  \"  she  exclaimed,  "I  wish  I  were  dead !    My  position 
s  intolerable.      .       .       .'' 
**Why,  what  is  the  matter.^"  asked  the  good  man. 
"Nothing,  nothing!"  she  replied. 

She  rose,  left  the  Colonel,  and  went  down  to  speak  pri- 
vately to  her  maid,  whom  she  sent  off  to  Paris,  impressing  on 
ler  that  she  was  herself  to  deliver  to  Delbecq  the  letter  just 
written,  and  to  bring  it  back  to  the  writer  as  soon  as  he  had 
*ead  it.  Then  the  Countess  went  put  to  sit  on  a  bench  suffi- 
ciently in  sight  for  the  Colonel  to  join  her  as  soon  as  he  might 

5 


130  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES  M 

choose.    The  Colonel,  who  was  lookiDg  for  her,  hastened  up 
and  sat  down  by  her. 

"Rosine/*  said  he,  "what  is  the  matter  with  you.^" 

She  did  not  answer. 

It  was  one  of  those  glorious,  calm  evenings  in  the  month 
of  June,  whose  secret  harmonies  infuse  such  sweetness  into 
the  sunset.     The  air  was  clear,  the  stillness  perfect,  so  that* 
far  away  in  the  park  they  could  hear  the  voices  of  somev 
children,  which  added  a  kind  of  melody  to  the  sublimity  of 
the  scene. 

"You  do  not  answer  me.^"  the  Colonel  said  to  his  wife. 

"My  husband *'   said  the  Countess,  who  broke   off, 

started  a  little,  and  with  a  blush  stopped  to  ask  him,  "What 
am  I  to  say  when  I  speak  of  M.  Ferraud?'* 

"Call  him  your  husband,  my  poor  child,"  replied  the 
Colonel,  in  a  kind  voice.  "Is  he  not  the  father  of  your 
children .?»" 

"Well,  then,"  she  said,  "if  he  should  ask  what  I  came 
here  for,  if  he  finds  that  I  came  here,  alone,  with  a  stranger, 
what  am  I  to  say  to  him?     Listen,  Monsieur,"  she  went  on,^ 
assuming  a  dignified  attitude,  "decide  my  fate,  I  am  resigned  1 
to  anything " 

"My  dear,"  said  the  Colonel,  taking  possession  of  his 
wife's  hands,  "I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  sacrifice  myself 
entirely  for  your  happiness " 

"That  is  impossible !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden  spas- 
modic movement.  "Remember  that  you  would  have  to 
renounce  your  identity,  and  in  an  authenticated  form." 

"What.^"  said  the  Colonel.  "Is  not  my  word  enough  for 
you?" 

The  word  "authenticated"  fell  on  the  old  man's  heart  ani 
roused  involuntary  distrust.    He  looked  at  his  wife  in  a  wa; 
that  made  her  color;  she  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  he  feared 
that  he  might  find  himself  compelled  to  despise  her.    The 


COLONEL  CHABERT  131 

'  Countess  was  afraid  lest  she  had  scared  the  shy  modesty, 
the  stern  honesty,  of  a  man  whose  generous  temper  and 
primitive  virtues  were  known  to  her.  Though  these  feelings 
had .  brought  the  clouds  to  their  brow,  they  immediately 
recovered  their  harmony.  This  was  the  way  of  it.  A  child's 
cry  was  heard  in  the  distance. 

"Jules,  leave  your  sister  in  peace,"  the  Countess  called  out. 

"What,  are  your  children  here.^"  said  Chabert. 

"Yes,  but  I  told  them  not  to  trouble  you.'* 

The  old  soldier  understood  the  delicacy,  the  womanly 
tact  of  so  gracious  a  precaution,  and  took  the  Countess'%and 
to  kiss  it. 

"But  let  them  come,"  said  he. 

The  little  girl  ran  up  to  complain  of  her  brother. 

"Mamma !" 

"Mamma !" 

"It  was  Jules " 

"It  was  her " 

Their  little  hands  were  held  out  to  their  mother,  and  the 
two  childish  voices  mingled;  it  was  an  unexpected  and 
charming  picture. 

"Poor  little  things  !"  cried  the  Countess,  no  longer  restrain- 
ing her  tears,  "I  shall  have  to  leave  them.  To  whom  will  the, 
law  assign  them.'^  A  mother's  heart  cannot  be  divided;  I 
want  them,  I  want  them." 

"Are  you  making  mamma  cry?"  said  Jules,  looking  fiercely 
at  the  Colonel. 

"Silence,  Jules !"  said  the  mother  in  a  decided  tone. 

The  two  children  stood  speechless,  examining  their  mother 
and  the  stranger  with  a  curiosity  which  it  is  impossible  to 
express  in  words. 

"Oh^  yes  !"  she  cried.  "If  I* am  separated  from  the  Count, 
only  leave  me  my  children,  and  I  will  submit  to  any- 
thing." 


132  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

This  was  the  decisive  speech  which  gained  all  that  she 
had  hoped  from  it. 

"Yes/*  exclaimed  the  Colonel,  as  if  he  were  ending  a 
sentence  already  begun  in  his  mind,  "I  must  return  under- 
ground again.     I  had  told  myself  so  already." 

**Can  I  accept  such  a  sacrifice?"  replied  his  wife.  "If 
sonde  men  have  died  to  save  a  mistress'  honor,  they  gave 
their  life  but  once.  But  in  this  case  you  would  be  giving  your 
life  every  day.  No,  no.  It  is  impossible.  If  it  were  only 
your  life,  it  would  be  nothing;  but  to  sign  a  declaration  that 
you  fare  not  Colonel  Chabert,  to  acknowledge  yourself  an 
impostor,  to  sacrifice  your  honor  and  live  a  lie  every  hour 
of  the  day !  Human  devotion  cannot  go  so  far.  Only  think ! 
No.  But  for  my  poor  children  I  would  have  fled  with  you 
by  this  time  to  the  other  end  of  the  world." 

"But,"  said  Chabert,  "cannot  I  live  here  in  your  little 
lodge  as  one  of  your  relations !  I  am  as  worn  out  as  a 
cracked  cannon ;  I  want  nothing  but  a  little  tobacco  and  the 
Constitutionnel/' 

The  Countess  melted  into  tears.  There  was  a  contest  of 
generosity  between  the  Comtesse  Ferraud  and  Colonel  Cha- 
bert, .  and  the  soldier  came  out  victorious.  One  evening, 
seeing  this  mother  with  her  children,  the  soldier  was  be- 
witched by  the  touching  grace  of  a  family  picture  in  the 
country,  in  the  shade  and  the  silence;  he  made  a  resolution 
to  remain  dead,  and,  frightened  no  longer  at  the  authenti- 
cation of  a  deed,  he  asked  what  he  was  to  do  to  secure 
beyond  all  risk  the  happiness  of  this  family. 

"Do  exactly  as  you  like,"  said  the  Countess.  "I  declare 
to  you  that  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  this  affair.  I 
ought  not." 

Delbecq  had  arrived  some  "days  before,  and  in  obedience 
to  the  Countess'  verbal  instructions,  the  intendant  had  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  the  old  soldier's  confidence.     So  on  the 


COLONEL  CHABERT  133 

following  morning  Colonel  Chabert  went  with  the  erewhile 
attorney  to  Saint-Leu-Taverny,  where  Delbecq  had  caused 
the  notary  to  draw  up  an  affidavit  in  such  terms  that,  after 
hearing  it  read^  the  Colonel  started  up  and  walked  out  of 
the  office. 

**Turf  and  thunder!  What  a  fool  you  must  think  me! 
Why,  I  should  make  myself  out  a  swindler !"  he  exclaimed. 

"Indeed,  Monsieur/'  said  Delbecq,  "I  should  advise  you 
not  to  sign  in  haste.  In  your  place  I  would  get  at  least 
thirty  thousand  francs  a  year  out  of  the  bargain.  Madame 
would  pay  them.'* 

After  annihilating  this  scoundrel  emeritus  by  the  light- 
ning look  of  an  honest  man  insulted,  the  Colonel  rushed  off, 
carried  away  by  a  thousand  contrary  emotions.  He  was 
suspicious,  indignant,  and  calm  again  by  turns. 

Finally  he  made  his  way  back  into  the  park  of  Groslay 
by  a  gap  in  a  fence,  and  slowly  walked  on  to  sit  down  and 
rest  and  meditate  at  his  ease  in  a  little  room  under  a  gazebo, 
from  which  the  road  to  Saint-Leu  could  be  seen.  The  path 
being  strewn  with  the  yellowish  sand  which  is  used  instead 
of  river-gravel,  the  Countess,  who  was  sitting  in  the  upper 
room  of  this  little  summer-house,  did  not  hear  the  Colonel's 
approach,  for  she  was  too  much  preoccupied  with  the  success 
of  her  business  to  pay  the  smallest  attention  to  the  slight 
noise  made  by  her  husband.  Nor  did  the  old  man  notice  that 
his  wife  was  in  the  room  over  him. 

''Well,  Monsieur  Delbecq,  has  he  signed?"  the  Countess 
asked  her  secretary,  whom  she  saw  alone  on  the  road  beyond 
the  hedge  of  a  haha. 

"No,  Madame.  I  do  not  even  know  what  has  become 
of  our  man.     The  old  horse  reared." 

"Then  we  shall  be  obliged  to  put  him  into  Charenton," 
said  she,  "since  we  have  got  him." 

The  Colonel,  who  recovered  the  elasticity  of  youth  to  leap 


134  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

the  haha,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  was  standing  in  front 
of  Delbecq,  on  whom  he  bestowed  the  two  finest  slaps  that 
ever  a  scoundrel's  cheeks  received. 

**And  you  may  add  that  old  horses  can  kick!"  said  he. 

His  rage  spent,  the  Colonel  no  longer  felt  vigorous  enough 
to  leap  the  ditch.  He  had  seen  the  truth  in  all  its  nakedness. 
The  Countess'  speech  and  Delbecq's  reply  had  revealed  the 
conspiracy  of  which  he  was  to  be  the  victim.  The  care 
taken  of  him  was  but  a  bait  to  entrap  him  in  a  snare.  That 
speech  was  like  a  drop  of  subtle  poison,  bringing  on  in  the 
old  soldier  a  return  of  all  his  sufferings,  physical  and  moral. 
He  came  back  to  the  summer-house  through  the  park  gate, 
walking  slowly  like  a  broken  man. 

Then  for  him  there  was  to  be  neither  peace  nor  truce! 
From  this  moment  he  must  begin  the  odious  warfare  with 
this  woman  of  which  Derville  had  spoken,  enter  on  a  life  of 
litigation,  feed  on  gall,  drink  every  morning  of  the  cup  of 
bitterness.  And  then — fearful  thought !  where  was  he  to  find 
the  money  needful  to  pay  the  cost  of  the  first  proceedings  ? 
He  felt  such  disgust  of  life,  that  if  there  had  been  any 
water  at  hand  he  would  have  thrown  himself  into  it;  that 
if  he  had  had  a  pistol,  he  would  have  blown  out  his  brains. 
Then  he  relapsed  into  the  indecision  of  mind  which,  since 
his  conversation  with  Derville  at  the  dairyman's  had  changed 
his  character. 

At  last,  having  reached  the  kiosque,  he  went  up  to  the 
gazebo,  where  little  rose-windows  afforded  a  view  over  each 
lovely  landscape  of  the  valley,  and  where  he  found  his  wife 
seated  on  a  chair.  The  Countess  was  gazing  at  the  distance 
and  preserved  a  calm  countenance,  showing  that  impene- 
trable face  which  women  can  assume  when  resolved  to  do 
their  worst.  She  wiped  her  eyes  as  if  she  had  been  weeping 
and  played  absently  with  the  pink  ribbons  of  her  sash. 
Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  her  apparent  assurance,  she  could 


I 


COLONEL  CHABERT  135 

not  help  shuddering  slightly  when  she  saw  before  her  her 
venerable  benefactor,  standing  with  folded  arms,  his  face 
pale,  his  brow  stern. 

"Madame,'*  he  said,  after  gazing  at  her  fixedly  for  a 
moment  and  compelling  her  to  blush,  "Madame,  I  do  not 
curse  you — I  scorn  you.  I  can  now  thank  the  chance  that 
has  divided  us.  I  do  not  feel  even  a  desire  for  revenge; 
I  no  longer  love  you.  I  want  nothing  from  you.  Live  in 
peace  on  the  strength  of  my  word;  it  is  worth  more  than 
the  scrawl  of  all  the  notaries  in  Paris.  I  will  never  assert 
my  claim  to  the  name  I  perhaps  have  made  illustrious.  I  am 
henceforth  but  a  poor  devil  named  Hyacinthe,  who  asks  no 
more  than  his  share  of  the  sunshine.    Farewell !" 

The  Countess  threw  herself  at  his  feet;  she  would  have 
detained  him  by  taking  his  hands,  but  he  pushed  her  away 
with  disgust,  saying — 

"Do  not  touch  me  V* 

The  Countess'  expression  when  she  heard  her  husband's 
retreating  steps  is  quite  indescribable.  Then,  with  the  deep 
perspicacity  given  only  by  utter  villainy  or  by  fierce  worldly 
selfishness,  she  knew  that  she  might  live  in  peace  on  the 
word  and  the  contempt  of  this  loyal  veteran. 

Chabert,  in  fact,  disappeared.  The  dairyman  failed  in 
business  and  became  a  hackney-cab  driver.  The  Colonel, 
perhaps,  took  up  some  similar  industry  for  a  time.  Perhaps, 
like  a  stone  flung  into  a  chasm,  he  went  falling  from  ledge 
to  ledge,  to  be  lost  in  the  mire  of  rags  that  seethes  through 
the  streets  of  Paris. 

Six  months  after  this  event,  Derville,  hearing  no  more  of 
Colonel  Chabert  or  the  Comtesse  Ferraud,  supposed  that  they 
had  no  doubt  come  to  a  compromise,  which  the  Countess, 
out  of  revenge,  had  had  arranged  by  some  other  lawyer. 
So  one  morning  he  added  up  the  sums  he  had  advanced  to 
the  said  Chabert  with  the  costs,  and  begged  the  Comtesse 


1 


136  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

Ferraud  to  claim  from  M.  le  Comte  Chabert  the  amount  o£ 
the  bill,  assuming  that  she  would  know  where  to  find  her 
first  husband. 

The  very  next  day  Comte  Ferraud^s  man  of  business,  lately 
appointed  President  of  the  County  Court  in  a  town  of  some 
importance,  wrote  this  distressing  note  to  Derville: 

''Monsieur, — 

"Madame  la  Comtesse  Ferraud  desires  me  to  inform  you 
that  your  client  took  complete  advantage  of  your  confidence, 
and  that  the  individual  calling  himself  Comte  Chabert  has 
acknowledged  that  he  came  forward  under  false  pretences. 
Yours,  etc.  Delbecq."" 

"One  comes  across  people  who  are,  on  my  honor,  too 
stupid  by  half,"  cried  Derville.  **They  don't  deserve  to^  be 
Christians !  Be  humane,  generous,  philanthropical,  and  a 
lawyer,  and  you  are  bound  to  be  cheated !  There  is  a  piece 
of  business  that  will  cost  me  two  thousand- franc  notes  V* 

Some  time  after  receiving  this  letter,  Derville  went  to  the 
Palais  de  Justice  in  search  of  a  pleader  tp  whom  he  wished 
to  speak,  and  who  was  employed  in  the  Police  Court.  As 
chance  would  have  it,  Derville  went  into  Court  Number  6  at 
the  moment  when  the  Presiding  Magistrate  was  sentencing 
one  Hyacinthe  to  two  months'  imprisonment  as  a  vagabond, 
and  subsequently  to  be  taken  to  the  Mendicity  House  of 
Detention,  a  sentence  which,  by  magistrate's  law,  is  equiv- 
alent to  perpetual  imprisonment.  On  hearing  the  name 
Hyacinthe,  Derville  looked  at  the  delinquent,  sitting  between 
two  gendarmes  on  the  bench  for  the  accused,  and  recognized 
in  the  condemned  man  his  false  Colonel  Chabert. 

The  old  soldier  was  placid,  motionless,  almost  absent- 
minded.  In  spite  of  his  rags,  in  spite  of  the  misery  stamped 
on  his  countenance,  it  gave  evidence  of  noble  pride.  His 
eye  had  a  stoical  expression  which  no  magistrate  ought  to 


COLONEL  CHABERT  137 

have  misunderstood;  but  as  soon  as  a  man  has  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  justice^  he  is  no  more  than  a  moral  entity,  a 
matter  of  law  or  of  fact,  just  as  to  statists  he  has  become 
a  zero. 

When  the  veteran  was  taken  back  to  the  lock-up,  to  be 
removed  later  with  the  batch  of  vagabonds  at  that  moment  at 
the  bar,  Derville  availed  himself  of  the  privilege  accorded 
to  lawyers  of  going  wherever  they  please  in  the  courts,  and 
followed  him  to  the  lock-up,  where  he  stood  scrutinizing 
him  for  some  minutes,  as  well  as  the  curious  crew  of  beggars 
among  whom  he  found  himself.  The  passage  to  the  lock-up 
at  that  moment  afforded  one  of  those  spectacles  which, 
unfortunately,  neither  legislators  nor  philanthropists,  nor 
1  painters,  nor  writers  come  to  study.  Like  all  the  laboratories 
of  the  law,  this  ante-room  is  a  dark  and  malodorous  place ; 
along  the  walls  runs  a  wooden  seat,  blackened  by  the  constant 
I  presence  there  of  the  wretches  who  come  to  this  meeting- 
I  place  of  every  form  of  social  squalor,  where  not  one  of  them 
is  missing. 

A  poet  might  say  that  the  day  was  ashamed  to  light  up 
this  dreadful  sewer  through  which  so  much  misery  flows! 
There  is  not  a  spot  on  that  plank  where  some  crime  has  not 
sat,  in  embryo  or  matured;  not  a  corner  where  a  man  has 
never  stood  who,  driven  to  despair  by  the  blight  which 
•justice  has  set  upon  him  after  his  first  fault,  has  not  there 
begun  a  career,  at  the  end  of  which  looms  the  guillotine  or  the 
pistol-snap  of  the  suicide.  All  who  fall  on  the  pavement  of 
Paris  rebound  against  these  yellow-gray  walls,  on  which  a 
philanthropist  who  was  not  a  speculator,  might  read  a  justifi- 
cation of  the  numerous  suicides  complained  of  by  hypocritical 
writers  who  are  incapable  of  taking  a  step  to  prevent  them — 
for  that  justification  is  written  in  that  ante-room,  like  a 
ipreface  to  the  dramas  of  the  Morgue,  or  to  those  enacted  on 
tthe  Place  de  la  Greve. 


138  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

At  this  moment  Colonel  Chabert  was  sitting  among  these 
men — men  with  coarse  faces,  clothed  in  the  horrible  livery, 
of  misery,  and  silent  at  intervals,  or  talking  in  a  low  tone, 
for  three  gendarmes  on  duty  paced  to  and  fro,  their  sabers 
clattering  on  the  floor. 

"Do  you  recognize  me?"  said  Derville  to  the  old  man, 
standing  in  front  of  him. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Chabert,  rising. 

"If  you  are  an  honest  man,"  Derville  went  on  in  an  under- 
tone, "hbw  could  you  remain  in  my  debt?" 

The  old  soldier  blushed  as  a  young  girl  might  when 
accused  by  her  mother  of  a  clandestine  love  affair. 

"What!  Madame  Ferraud  has  not  paid  you?"  cried  he 
in  a  loud  voice. 

"Paid  me?"  said  Derville.  "She  wrote  to  me  that  you 
were  a  swindler." 

The  Colonel  cast  up  his  eyes  in  a  sublime  impulse  of  horror 
and  imprecation,  as  if  to  call  heaven  to  witness  to  this  fresh 
subterfuge. 

"Monsieur,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  that  was  calm  by  sheer 
huskiness,  "get  the  gendarmes  to  allow  me  to  go  into  the 
lock-up,  and  I  will  sign  an  order  which  will  certainly  be 
honored." 

At  a  word  from  Derville  to  the  sergeant  he  was  allowed  to 
take  his  client  into  the  room,  where  Hyacinthe  wrote  a  few 
lines,  and  addressed  them  to  the  Comtesse  Ferraud. 

"Send  her  that,"  said  the  soldier,  "and  you  will  be  paid 
your  costs  and  the  money  you  advanced.  Believe  me.  Mon- 
sieur, if  I  have  not  shown  you  the  gratitude  I  owe  you  for 
your  kind  offices,  it  is  not  the  less  there,"  and  he  laid  his  hand 
on  his  heart.  "Yes,  it  is  there,  deep  and  sincere.  But  what 
can  the  unfortunate  do?     They  live,  and  that  is  all." 

"What!"  said  Derville.  "Did  you  not  stipulate  for  an 
allowance  ?" 


COLONEL  CHABERT  I39 

**Do  not  speak  of  it!'*  cried  the  old  man.  "You  cannot 
conceive  how  deep  my  contempt  is  for  the  outside  life  to 
which  most  men  cling.  I  was  suddenly  attacked  by  a  sick- 
ness— disgust  of  humanity.  When  I  think  that  Napoleon 
is  at  Saint  Helena^  everything  on  earth  is  a  matter  of  indif- 
ference to  me.  I  can  no  longer  be  a  soldier;  that  is  my  only 
real  gr^ef.  After  all/'  he  added  with  a  gesture  of  childish 
simplicity^  "it  is  better  to  enjoy  luxury  of  feeling  than  of 
dress.     For  my  part^  I  fear  nobody's  contempt." 

And  the  Colonel  sat  down  on  his  bench  again. 

Derville  went  away.  On  returning  to  his  office^,  he  sent 
Godeschal,  at  that  time  his  second  clerk^  to  the  Comtesse 
Ferraud^  who,  on  reading  the  note_,  at  once  paid  the  sum  due 
to  Comte  Chabert's  lawyer.  , 

In  1830,  toward  the  end  of  June,  Godeschal,  now  himself 
an  attorney,  went  to  Ris  with  Derville,  to  whom  he  had 
succeeded.  When  they  reached  the  avenue  leading  from  the 
high  road  to  Bicetre,^^  they  saw,  under  one  of  the  elm  trees 
by  the  wayside,  one  of  those  old,  broken,  and  hoary  paupers 
who  have  earned  the  Marshal's  staff^'^  among  beggars  by 
living  on  at  Bicetre  as  poor  women  live  on  at  la  Salpetriere.^^ 
This  man,  one  of  the  two  thousand  poor  creatures  who  are 
lodged  in  the  infirmary  for  the  aged,  was  seated  on  a  corner- 
stone, and  seemed  to  have  concentrated  all  his  intelligence  on 
an  operation  well  known  to  these  pensioners,  which  consists 
in  drying  their  snuffy  pocket-handkerchiefs  in  the  sun,  per- 
haps to  save  washing  them.  This  old  man  had  an  attractive 
countenance.  He  was  dressed  in  the  reddish  cloth  wrapper- 
coat  which  the  workhouse  affords  to  its  inmates,  a  sort  of 
horrible  livery. 

26.  A  town  known  for  its  home  for  the  aged  and  the  insane. 

27.  The*  rank  of  Marshal  is  the  highest  honor  that  can  be  conferred 
in  the  French  army.     The  staff  is  part  of  the  insignia  of  the  rank. 

28.  An  institution  for  women,  in  Paris,  similar  to  the  one  for  men  at 
Bicetre. 


140  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"I  say,  Derville/'  said  Godeschal  to  his  traveling  com 
panion,  "look  at  that  old  fellow.  Isn't  he  like  those  gro- 
tesque carved  figures  we  get  from  Germany  ?  And  it  is  alive, 
perhaps  it  is  happy.** 

Derville  looked  at  the  poor  man  through  his  eyeglass,  and 
with  a  little  exclamation  of  surprise  he  said: 

"That  old  man,  my  dear  fellow,  is  a  whole  poem,  cjr,  as  the  . 
romantics  say,  a  drama.  Did  you  ever  meet  the  Comtesse  | 
Ferraud  ?" 

"Yes;  she  is  a  clever  woman,  and  agreeable;  but  rather 
too  pious,"  said  Godeschal. 

"That  old  Bicetre  pauper  is  her  lawful  husband,  Comte^ 
Chabert,  the  old  Colonel.  She  has  had  him  sent  here,  no-^^ 
doubt.  And  if  he  is  in^this  workhouse  instead  of  living  in 
a  mansion,  it  is  solely  because  he  reminded  the  pretty 
Countess  that  he  had  taken  her,  like  a  hackney  cab,  on  the 
street.  I  can  remember  now  the  tiger's  glare  she  shot  at 
him  at  that  moment." 

This  opening  having  excited  Godeschal's  curiosity,  Der- 
ville related  the  story  here  told. 

Two  days  later,  on  Monday  morning,  as  they  returned  to 
Paris,  the  two  friends  looked  again  at  Bicetre,  and  Derville 
proposed  that  they  should  call  on  Colonel  Chabert.  Half  way 
up  the  avenue  they  found  the  old  man  sitting  on  the  trunk 
of  a  felled  tree ;  with  his  stick  in  one  hand,  he  was  amusing 
himself  with  drawing  lines  in  the  sand.  On  looking  at  him 
narrowly,  they  perceived  that  he  had  been  breakfasting 
elsewhere  than  at  Bicetre. 

"Good  morning.  Colonel  Chabert,"  said  Derville. 

"Not  Chabert!  Not  (Chabert!  My  name  is  Hyacinthe," 
replied  the  veteran.  "I  aiii  no  longer  a  man,  I  am  No. 
164,  Room  7/'  he  added,  looking  at  Derville  with^  timid 
anxiety,  the  fear  of  an  old  man  and  a  child.  "Are  you 
going  to  visit  the  man   condemned   to   death?"   he   asked, 


COLONEL  CHABERT  141 

after  a  moment's  silence.     "He  is  not  married !     He  is  very 
lucky  I" 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Godeschal.  "Would  you  like  some- 
thing to  buy  snujff  ?'* 

With  all  the  simplicity  of  a  street  Arab,  the  Colonel 
eagerly  held  out  his  hand  to  the  two  strangers,  who  each 
gave  him  a  twenty-franc  piece;  he  thanked  them  with  a 
puzzled  look,  saying — 

"Brave  troopers  !'* 

He  ported  arms,  pretended  to  take  aim  at  them,  and 
shouted  with  a  smile: 

"Fire!  both  arms!  Vive  Napoleon!"  And  he  drew  a 
flourish  in  the  air  with  his  stick. 

"The  nature  of  his  wound  has  no  doubt  made  him  childish," 
said  Derville. 

"Childish !  He.'*"  said  another  old  pauper,  who  was  looking 
on.  "Why,  there  are  days  when  you  had  better  not  tread 
on  his  corns.  He  is  an  old  rogue,  full  of  philosophy  and 
imagination.  But  today,  what  can  you  expect !  He  has  had 
his  Monday  treat.  He  was  here.  Monsieur,  so  long  ago  as 
1820.  At  that  time  a  Prussian  officer,  whose  chaise  was 
crawling  up  the  hill  of  Villejuif,  came  by  on  foot.  We 
two  were  together,  Hyacinthe  and  I^  by  the  roadside.  The 
officer,  as  he  walked,  was  talking  to  another,  a  Russian,  or 
some  animal  of  the  same  species,  and  when  the  Prussian  saw 
the  old  boy,  just  to  make  fun,  he  said  to  him,  *Here  is  an 
old  cavalry  man  who  must  have  been  at  Rossbach.'^^  *I 
was  too  young  to  be  there,'  said  Hyacinthe.  *But  I  was  at 
Jena.^^  And  the  Prussian  made  off  pretty  quick,  without 
asking  any  more  questions." 

"What  a  destiny !"  exclaimed  Derville.  "Taken  out  of 
the  Foundling  Hospital  to  die  in  the  Infirmary  for  the  Aged, 

29.  At  Rossbach,  a  village  in  Saxony,  the  Germans  defeated  the 
French,  Nov.  5,  1757.  At  Jena,  also  in  Saxony,  the  French,  under 
Napoleon,  defeated  the  Germans,  Oct.  14,  1806. 


142  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

after  helping  Napoleon  between  whiles  to  conquer  Egypt 
and  Europe.  Do  you  know,  my  dear  fellow/'  Derville  went 
on  after  a  pause,  "there  are  in  modern  society  three  men  who 
can  never  think  well  of  the  world — the  priest,  the  doctor,  and 
the  man  of  law  ?  And  they  wear  black  robes,  perhaps  because 
they  are  in  mourning  for  every  virtue  and  every  illusion.  The 
most  hapless  of  the  three  is  the  lawyer.  When  a  man  comes 
in  search  of  the  priest,  he  is  prompted  by  repentance,  by 
remorse,  by  beliefs  which  make  him  interesting,  which  elevate 
him  and  comfort  the  soul  of  the  intercessor  whose  task  will 
bring  him  a  sort  of  gladness ;  he  purifies,  repairs,  and  recon- 
ciles. But  we  lawyers,  we  see  the  same  evil  feelings  repeated 
again  and  again,  nothing  can  correct  them;  our  offices  are 
sewers  which  can  never  be  cleansed. 

**How  many  things  have  I  learned  in  the  exercise  of  my 
profession!  I  have  seen  a  father  die  in  a  garret,  deserted 
by  two  daughters,  to  whom  he  had  given  forty  thousand 
francs  a  year !  I  have  known  wills  burnt ;  I  have  seen  mothers 
robbing  their  children,  wives  killing  their  husbands,  and 
working  on  the  love  they  could  inspire  to  make  the  men 
idiotic  or  mad,  that  they  might  live  in  peace  with  a  lover.  I 
have  seen  women  teaching  the  child  of  their  marriage  such 
tastes  as  must  bring  it  to  the  grave  in  order  to  benefit  the 
child  of  an  illicit  affection.  I  could  not  tell  you  all  I  have 
seen,  for  I  have  seen  crimes  against  which  justice  is  impotent. 
In  short,  all  the  horrors  that  romancers  suppose  they  have 
invented  are  still  below  the  truth. — You  will  know  something 
of  these  pretty  things ;  as  for  me,  I  am  going  to  live  in  the 
country  with  my  wife.     I  have  a  horror  of  Paris.*' 

*'I  have  seen  plenty  of  them  already  in  Desroches*  office," 
replied  Godeschal. 


MERIMEE 

(1803-1870) 

Prosper  Merimee  was  born  in  Paris  in  1803.  Both  his 
father  and  mother  were  artists^  but  the  son  was  educated 
to  be  a  lawyer.  He  passed  the  bar  examination  but  never 
practiced^  preferring  to  spend  his  time  in  the  study  of  lan- 
guages^ especially  English.  Merimee  was  very  fond  of  the 
intellectual  society  of  Paris  and  liked  to  be  considered  a 
man  of  the  world,  a  distinction  which  he  deserved  because 
of  his  varied  interests  both  at  home  and  in  foreign  parts. 
He  did  not  allow  himself  to  become  too  much  attached  to 
any  one  profession,  but  rather  played  the  part  of  the  ama- 
teur in  many.  Among  his  particular  interests  were :  writing 
plays ;  making  historical  investigations ;  archaeology ;  writing 
novels  and  short  stories;  collecting  coins;  and  traveling. 
Under  the  Second  Empire  he  was  a  Senator,  and  later  he 
was  appointed  Inspector-General  of  Historical  Monuments, 
in  which  capacity  he  labored  much  in  the  restoration  of  old 
architecture  and  the  preservation  of  the  Roman  remains  in 
France. 

Merimee's  short  stories  are  always  dramatic,  realistic  in 
treatment,  but  romantic  in  subject.  Like  Balzac,  he  looked 
for  the  exceptional  incident  and  the  exceptional  character. 
He  chose  stories  in  which  something  happened,  something 
definite  and  striking,  and  nearly  always  that  something  was 
death.  His  style  is  simple,  direct,  precise,  and  entirely 
without  decoration.  He  emphasized  the  importance  of 
small  but  significant  facts  and  was  unusually  successful  in 
imparting  local  color  effects  without  obtruding  them  upon 
the  story  proper. 

In  his  attitude  towards  life  and  the  world  he  always 
maintained  a   severely  cynical  pessimism.     Neither  in  his 

143 


144  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

stories  nor  in  his  life  did  he  allow  any  display  of  emotion. 
He  was  skeptical  about  the  idea  of  good  in  the  world  and 
wrote  **that  there  is  nothing  more  common  than  doing  evil 
for  the  pleasure  of  doing  it."  However^  underneath  all 
this  outward  cynicism  he  was  really  a  man  of  warm  sympa- 
thies and  charitable  inclinations^  though,  like  Maupassant, 
he  never  allowed  his  personality  to  be  revealed  in  his  work. 

Merimee  was  the  first  great  French  writer  who  took  an 
intelligent  and  special  interest  in  Russian  novelists.  He 
greatly  admired  the  stories  of  Pushkin  and  was  the  friend 
of  Turgenev,  who  lived  all  the  latter  part  of  his  life  in 
Paris. 

Mateo  Falcone  (1829),  the  selection  in  this  volume,  is  an 
excellent  illustration  of  Merimee's  choice  of  subject,  mate- 
rial, treatment,  and  above  all,  the  tragic  irony  which  he 
consciously  cultivated  for  the  purpose  of  his  art.  Other 
stories  of  the  same  type  are  Colomha,  Taking  of  the  Re- 
doubt, Tamango,  and  Carmen,  all  of  which  deserve  the 
attention  of  the  reader  of  French  fiction. 

Merimee  was  elected  to  the  French  Academy  in  1844. 
He  died  at  Cannes,  September  23,  1870. 


MATEO   FALCONE 

By  PROSPER  MJ^IRIM^E 

Going  out  of  Porto-Vecchio  and  turning  northwest, 
towards  the  interior  of  the  island,  you  see  the  land  rise 
pretty  sharply,  and,  after  a  three  hours'*  walk  along  wind- 
ing paths,  obstructed  by  great  lumps  of  rock,  and  sometimes 
cut  by  ravines,  you  reach  the  edge  of  a  most  extensive 
maquis}  The  mdquis  is  the  home  of  the  Corsican  shepherds 
and  of  whoever  is  in  trouble  with  the  police.  You  must  know 
that  the  Corsican  peasant,  to  save  himself  the  trouble  of 
manuring,  sets  fire  to  a  stretch  of  wood;  if  the  flames  spread 
further  than  is  necessary,  so  much  the  worse ;  but  whatever 

1.  The  name  given  to  the  bush  country  of  Corsica. 


MATEO  FALCONE  145 

happens,  he  is  sure  of  a  good  harvest  from  sowing  on  this 
ground,  fertilized  by  the  ashes  of  the  trees  it  bore.  When 
the  corn  has  been  gathered  (they  leave  the  straw,  which 
would  be  a  trouble  to  collect),  the  tree  roots,  which  have 
stayed  in  the  ground  without  wasting  away,  put  forth  very 
heavy  shoots  in  the  following  spring,  which  in  a  few  years 
reach  a  height  of  seven  or  eight  feet.  It  is  this  species  of 
close  thicket  that  they  call  the  mdquis.  It  is  made  up  of 
different  kinds  of  trees  and  shrubs  mixed  and  entangled  as 
God  wills.  Only  with  a  hatchet  in  his  hand  can  a  man  open 
himself  a  way  through,  and  there  are  mdquis  so  thick  and 
bushy  that  the  wild  rams  themselves  are  unable  to  penetrate 
th^m. 

If  you  have  killed  a  man,  go  into  the  mdquis  of  Porto- 
Vecchio,  and  you  will  live  there  in  safety,  with  a  good  gun, 
powder,  and  shot ;  you  must  not  forget  a  brown  cloak  with 
a  hood  on  it,  that  will  serve  as  covering  and  mattress.  The 
shepherds  give  you  milk,  cheese,  and  chestnuts,  and  you  will 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  the  law,  or  the  dead  man's  rela- 
tions, except  when  you  have  to  go  down  into  the  town  to 
renew  your  stock  of  ammunition. 

Mateo  Falcone,  when  I  was  in  Corsica  in  18 — ,  had  his 
house  half  a  league's  distance  from  the  mdquis.  He  was  a 
fairly  rich  man  in  the  countryside;  living  as  a  gentleman, 
that  is  to  say,  without  doing  anything,  on  the  produce  of 
his  flocks,  that  shepherds,  a  kind  of  nomads,  pastured  here 
and  there  over  the  mountains.  When  I  saw  him,  two  years 
after  the  incident  I  am  about  to  relate  to  you,  he  seemed 
to  me  fifty  years  old  at  most.  Imagine  a  man  small  but 
sturdy,  with  crisp  hair,  black  as  jet,  large  quick  eyes,  and 
a  complexion  the  color  of  boot-leather.  His  skill  with  the 
gun  passed  for  extraordinary,  even  in  his  country  where 
there  are  so  many  good  shots.  For  example,  Mateo  would 
never  fire  at  a  wild  ram  with  buckshot;    at  a  hundred  ar.d 


146  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

twenty  paces,  he  would  bring  it  down  with  a  bullet  in  the 
head  or  the  shoilder,  as  he  chose.  He  used  his  weapon  as 
easily  at  night  as  in  the  daytime,  and  I  heard  this  proof 
of  his  skill,  that  will  perhaps  seem  incredible  to  those  who 
have  not  traveled  in  Corsica.  At  eighty  paces,  a  lighted 
candle  was  placed  behind  a  piece  of  transparent  paper  as 
big  as  a  plate.  H^  aimed.  The  candle  was  blown  out,  and, 
after  a  minute  in  the  most  absolute  darkness,  he  fired  and 
pierced  the  paper  three  times  out  of  four. 

With  such  transcendent  merit,  Mateo  Falcone  had  won  a 
great  reputation.  Men  said  he  was  as  good  a  friend  as  he 
was  a  dangerous  enemy:  obliging,  too,  and  charitable,  he 
lived  at  peace  with  everybody  in  the  neighborhood  of  Porto- 
Veccliio.  But  it  was  said  of  him  that,  at  Corte,  whence  he 
had  taken  his  wife,  he  had  disembarrassed  himself  in  the 
most  vigorous  manner  of  a  rival  accounted  as  redoubtable 
in  war  as  in  love;  at  least,  to  Mateo  was  attributed  a  certain 
shot  that  had  surprised  his  rival  shaving  before  a  little 
mirror  hung  in  his  window.  The  affair  was  hushed  up,  and 
Mateo  married.  His  wife  Giuseppa  had  given  him  first 
three  girls  (at  which  he  was  enraged)  and  finally  a  boy, 
whom  he  called  Fortunato,  the  hope  of  his  family,  heir  to 
the  name.  The  daughters  were  well  married:  their  father 
could  count  at  need  on  the  poniards  and  carbines  of  his 
sons-in-law.  The  son  was  only  ten  years  old,  but  already 
promised  well. 

One  autumn  day,  Mateo  went  out  early  with  his  wife  to 
visit  one  of  his  flocks  in  a  clearing  in  the  mdquis.  \  Little 
Fortunato  wanted  to  accompany  him,  but  the  clearing  was 
too  far  away;  besides,  it  was  very  necessary  that  some  one 
should  stay  to  guard  the  house;  the  father  refused:  we 
shall  see  if  he  had  not  good  reason  to  regret  it. 

He  had  been  away  some  hours,  and  little  Fortunato  was 
tranquilly  stretched  in  the  sun,  looking  at  the  blue  moun- 


MATEO  FALCONE  147 

tains^  and  thinking  that  next  Sunday  he  would  be  going 
to  dinner  in  the  town^  at  the  house  of  his  uncle  the  Corporal/ 
when  he  was  suddenly  interrupted  in  his  meditations  by  the 
sound  of  a  gun.  He  stood  up  and  turned  to  the  side  of 
the  plain  whence  the  sound  came.  Other  gunshots  followed, 
fired  at  irregular  intervals,  and  always  nearer  and  nearer; 
at  last,  a  man  appeared  in  the  path  leading  from  the  plain 
to  Mateo's  house,  a  pointed  cap  on  his  head,  like  those  worn 
by  the  mountaineers,  bearded,  in  tatters,  dragging  himself 
with  difficulty,  leaning  on  his  gun.  He  had  just  received  a 
bullet  in  the  thigh. 

The  man  was  a  bandit,^  who,  having  set  off  by  night  to 
get  powder  in  the  town,  had  fallen  on  the  way  into  an 
ambuscade  of  Corsican  light  infantry.  After  a  vigorous 
defense,  he  had  succeeded  in  making  good  his  retreat,  hotly 
pursued,  and  firing  from  rock  to  rock.  But  he  had  not  much 
start  of  the  soldiers,  and  his  wound  made  it  impossible  for 
him  to  reach  the  mdquis  before  being  caught  up. 

He  came  up  to  Fortunato,  and  said: 

"You  are  Mateo  Falcone's  son.^'* 

"Yes.'' 

"I  am  Gianetto  Sanpiero.  The  yellow  collars  ^  are  after 
me.    Hide  me,  for  I  can  go  no  further." 

"And  what  will  my  father  say,  if  I  hide  you  without  his 
leave  ?*' 

"He  will  say  you  have  done  right." 

"Who  knows?" 

"Hide  me  quickly;   they  are  coming." 

"Wait  till  my  father  comes  back." 

"Wait !  Confound  it !  They  will  be  here  in  five  minutes. 
Come,  hide  me,  or  I'll  kill  you." 

Fortunato  answered  him  with  the  utmost  calm: 

2.  A  title  in  Corsica  to  a  man  of  property  and  influence. 

3.  A  refugee  from  justice. 

4.  The  light  Infantry  uniform  had  a  yellow  collar. 


248  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"Your  gun  is  not  loaded^  and  there  are  no  cartridges  in 
your  caribera"  ^ 

"I  have  my  dagger." 

"But  will  you  run  as  quick  as  I?" 

He  made  a  bound  and  put  himself  out  of  reach. 

"You  are  not  the  son  of  Mateo  Falcone.  Will  you  let  me 
be  arrested  in  front  of  your  house?'* 

The  child  seemed  touched. 

"What  will  you  give  me  if  I  hide  you?"  he  said^  coming 
nearer. 

The  bandit  rummaged  in  a  leather  pouch  that  hung  at 
his  belt^  and  took  out  a  five-franc  piece  that  he  had  no  doubt 
kept  to  buy  powder.  Fortunato  smiled  at  the  sight  of  the 
piece  of  silver;  he  seized  it  and  said  to  Gianetto: 

"Fear  nothing." 

Instantly  he  made  a  great  hole  in  a  hayrick  placed  near 
the  house.  Gianetto  squatted  down  in  it^  and  the  child 
covered  him  up  so  as  to  leave  him  a  little  air  to  breathe, 
and  yet  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  suspect  that  a  man  was 
concealed  in  the  hay.  He  bethought  himself  too  of  an 
ingenious  piece  of  savage  cunning.  He  fetched  a  cat  and 
lier  little  ones,  and  established  them  on  the  hayrick,  to  make 
believe  that  it  had  not  been  stirred  for  some  time.  Then, 
noticing  traces  of  blood  on  the  path  close  to  the  house,  he 
covered  them  carefully  with  dust,  and,  that  done,  lay  down 
again  in  the  sun  with  the  utmost  tranquillity. 

Some  minutes  later,  six  men  in  brown  uniform  with  yellow 
collars,  commanded  by  an  adjutant,  were  before  Mateo's 
door.  The  adjutant  was  distantly  connected  with  Falcone. 
(It  is  well  known  that  in  Corsica  degrees  of  relationship  are 
counted  farther  than  elsewhere.)  His  name  was  Tiodoro 
Gamba:  he  was  a  man  of  energy,  much  feared  by  the 
bandits,  many  of  whom  he  had  already  run  down. 

5.  A  cartridge  belt. 


MATEO  FALCONE  149 

"Good-day^  little  cousin/'  said  he,  accosting  Fortunato. 
"How  you  have  grown!  Did  you  see  a  man  pass  by  just 
now?'' 

**0h,  I  am  not  yet  as  big  as  you,  cousin/'  the  child 
answered  with  a  simple  air. 

"That  will  come.  But  tell  me,  haven't  you  seen  a  man 
go  by?" 

"Have  I  seen  a  man  go  by?" 

"Yes ;  a  ^man  with  a  pointed  cap,  and  a  waistcoat  worked 
in  red  and  yellow?" 

"A  man  with  a  pointed  cap,  and  a  waistcoat  worked  in 
red  and  yellow?" 

"Yes;   answer  quickly,  and  do  not  repeat  my  questions." 

"This  morning.  Monsieur  the  Cure  Vent  past  our  door  on 
his  horse  Piero.  He  asked  me  how  papa  was,  and  I  told 
him  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  you  young  scamp,  you  are  playing  the  fool !  Tell 
me  at  once  which  way  Gianetto  went;  he  is  the  man  we 
are  after,  and  I  am  sure  he  took  this  path." 

"Who  knows  ?" 

"Who  knows?     I  know  you  have  seen  him." 

"Does  one  then  see  passersby  when  one  is  asleep?" 

"Rogue,  you  were  not  asleep;  the  gunshots  woke  you 
up." 

"So  you  think,  cousin,  that  your  carbines  make  so  much 
noise?     My  father's  rifle  makes  much  more." 

"May  the  devil  take  you,  cursed  scamp  that  you  are! 
I  am  very  sure  you  have  seen  Gianetto.  Perhaps  you  have 
even  hidden  him.  Come,  mates,  into  the  house  with  you, 
and  see  if  our  man  is  not  there.  He  was  only  going  on 
one  foot,  and  he  has  too  much  sense,  the  rascal,  to  try  and 
reach  the  mdquis  limping.  Besides,  the  traces  of  blood  stop 
here." 

"And  what  will  papa  say?"  asked  Fortunato,  chuckling; 


150  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES  ' 

"what  will  he  say  when  he  hears  that  his  house  was  entered 
while  he  was  out?*' 

"Rogue!*'  said  Adjutant  Gamba,  taking  him  by  the  ear, 
"do  you  know  that,  if  I  like,  I  can  make  you  change  your 
tune?  Perhaps,  if  I  give  you  a  score  of  blows  with  the  flat 
of  the  sword,  ysOU  will  speak  at  last/* 

And  Fortunato  went  on  chuckling. 

"My  father  is  Mateo  Falcone/*  he  said  with  emphasis. 

"Do  you  know,  little  scamp,  that  I  can  take  you  off  to 
Corte  or  to  Bastia?  I  will  put  you  to  sleep  in  a  cell,  on 
straw,  with  irons  on  your  feet,  and  I  will  have  your  head 
cut  off  unless  you  say  where  is  Gianetto  Sanpiero.** 

The  child  broke  into  a  laugh  at  this  ridiculous  threat. 
He  said  again: 

"My  father  is  Mateo  Falcone.*' 

"Adjutant,**  said  one  of  the  voltigeurs^  under  his  breath, 
"do  not  let  us  get  into  trouble  with  Mateo.** 

It  was  clear  that  Gamba  was  embarrassed.  He  spoke  in 
a  low  voice  to  his  men,  who  had  already  gone  through  the. 
house.  It  was  not  a  long  business,  for  a  Corsican's  cottage 
is  made  up  of  a  single  square  room.  The  furniture  consists 
of  a  table,  benches,  chests,  household  utensils,  and  the 
weapons  of  the  chase.  Meaniyhile,  little  Fortunato  stroked 
his  cat,  and  seemed  to  find  a  malicious  enjoyment  in  the 
discomfiture  of  the  voltigeurs  and  his  cousin. 

A  soldier  came  up  to  the  hayrick.  He  saw  the  cat,  and 
carelessly  stuck  a  bayonet  in  the  hay,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders, as  if  he  felt  he  were  taking  a  ridiculous  precaution. 
Nothing  stirred;  and  the  child*s  face  did  not  betray  the 
slightest  emotion. 

The  adjutant  and  his  men  cursed  their  luck;  they  were 
already  looking  seriously  towards  the  plain,  as  if  ready  to 
go  back  whence  they  had  come,  when  their  leader,  convinced 

6.  The  light  infantry  employed  as  country  police. 


MATEO  FALCONE  151 

that  threats  would  make  no  impression  on  Falcone's  son^ 
wished  to  make  a  final  attempt^  and  try  the  effect  of  caresses 
and  gifts. 

* 'Little  cousin/'  said  he^  "y^u  seem  to  be  a  wide-awake 
young  rogue !  You  will  go  far.  But  you  are  playing  a  risky 
game  with  me;  and,  if  it  were  not  for  fear  of  troubling  my 
cousin  Mateo,  devil  take  it,  if  I  would  not  carry  you  off 
with  me." 

"Bah!" 

*'But,  when  my  cousin  returns,  I  shall  tell  him  the  whole 
story,  and  he  will  give  you  the  whip  till  the  blood  comes, 
for  telling  lies." 

*'How  do  you  know.^" 

"You  will  see.  .  .  .  But  look  here.  ...  Be  a  good  boy, 
and  I  will  give  you  something." 

"As  for  me,  cousin,  I  will  give  you  a  piece  of  advice ;  and 
that  is,  that  if  you  dawdle  any  longer,  Gianetto  will  be  in 
the  mdquis,  and  it  will  take  a  smarter  fellow  than  you  to  go 
and  look  for  him  there." 

The  adjutant  pulled  a  silver  watch  out  of  his  j)ocket, 
worth  a  good  ten  crowns ;  ^  and,  noticing  that  little  For- 
tunato's  eyes  glittered  as  they  looked  at  it,  dangled  the 
watch  at  the  end  of  its  steel  chain,  and  said: 

"Scamp !  you  would  be  glad  enough  to  have  a  watch  like 
this  hanging  from  your  neck ;  you  would  walk  in  the  streets 
of  Porto- Vecchio,  proud  as  a  peacock;  and  people  would 
ask  you,  'What  time  is  it.^*  and  you  would  say  to  them,  'Look 
at  my  watch.'  " 

"When  I  am  big,  my  uncle  the  Corporal  will  give  me  a 
watch." 

"Yes;  but  your  uncle's  son  has  one  already  .  .  .  not  as 
fine  as  this  it  is  true  .  .  .  and  yet  he  is  younger  than  you." 

The  child  sighed. 

7.  The  crown  was  worth  $1.12 ;  it  is  no  longer  current  in  France. 


152  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"Well,  would  you  like  the  watch,  little  cousin  ?** 

Fortunate,  ogling  the  watch  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes, 
was  like  a  cat  to  whom  one  offers  a  whole  chicken.  The  cat 
dares  not  put  a  claw  on  it,  feeling  that  one  is  laughing  at 
him,  and  turns  away  his  eyes  from  time  to  time,  so  as  not  to 
succumb  to  the  temptation ;  but  he  licks  his  lips  continually, 
and  seems  to  say  to  his  master,  "What  a  cruel  joke  this  is!" 

And  yet'  Adjutant  Gamba  seemed  to  be  making  a  real  offer 
of  the  watch.  Fortunato  did  not  put  out  his  hand,  but  said, 
with  a  bitter  smile: 

"Why  are  you  laughing  at  me?" 

"By  God!  I  am  not  laughing.  Only  tell  me  where  is 
Gianetto,  and  the  watch  is  yours." 

Fortunato  allowed  an  incredulous  smile  to  escape  him; 
and,  fixing  his  black  eyes  on  those  of  the  adjutant,  tried  to 
read  in  them  the  good  faith  he  sought  for  in  the  words. 

"May  I  lose  my  epaulettes,"  cried  the  adjutant,  "if  I  do 
not  give  you  the  watch  on  that  condition!  My  fellows  are 
witnesses,  and  I  cannot  unsay  it." 

As  he  spoke,  he  brought  the  watch  nearer  and  nearer  till 
it  almost  touched  the  pale  cheek  of  the  child,  whose  face 
showed  clearly  how  covetousness  and  the  respect  due  to  hos- 
pitality were  contending  in  his  soul.  His  bare  breast  heaved 
convulsively,  and  he  seemed  almost  choking.  Meanwhile  the 
watch  swung,  and  twisted,  and  sometimes  touched  the  tip  of 
his  nose.  At  last,  little  by  little,  his  right  hand  rose  towards 
the  watch;  he  touched  it  with  the  tip  of  his  fingers ;  its  whole 
weight  was  in  his  hand,  without  the  adjutant,  however,  let- 
ting go  the  end  of  the  chain  ...  the  face  was  blue  ...  the 
case  newly  burnished  ...  it  seemed  all  on  fire  in  the  sun. 
.  .  .  The  temptation  was  too  strong. 

Fortunato  lifted  his  left  hand  also,  and  indicated  with  his 
thumb,  over  his  shoulder,  the  hayrick  on  which  he  leant.  The 
adjutant  instantly  understood.     He  dropped  the  end  of  the 


MATEO  FALCONE  153 

chain.  Fortunate  felt  himself  sole  possessor  of  the  watch. 
He  leapt  with  the  agility  of  a  deer,  and  put  ten  paces 
between  himself  and  the  hayrick,  that  the  voltigeurs  imme- 
diately set  to  work  to  bring  down. 

It  was  not  long  before  they  saw  the  hay  stir;  a  bleeding 
man  came  out  of  it,  with  a  dagger  in  his  hand ;  but,  when  he 
tried  to  get  on  his  feet,  his  congealed  wound  prevented  him 
from  standing  upright.  He  fell.  The  adjutant  flung  him- 
self upon  him,  and  wrested  away  his  poniard.  Immediately 
he  was  strongly  bound,  in  spite  of  his  resistance. 

Gianetto,  laid  on  the  ground,  and  tied  up  like  a  bundle  of 
sticks,  turned  his  head  towards  Fortunato,  who  had  come  up 
again. 

**Son  of  .  .  . !"  he  said,  with  more  scorn  than  anger. 

The  child  threw  him  the  piece  of  silver  he  had  had  from 
him,  feeling  that  he  no  longer  deserved  it;  but  the  proscribed 
man  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  action.  He  said  very  tran- 
quilly to  the  ad j  utant : 

"My  dear  Gamba,  I  cannot  walk;  you  will  have  to  carry 
me  to  the  town." 

**You  were  running  just  now,  quicker  than  a  young  goat,'* 
retorted  the  cruel  victor;  "but  be  easy:  I  am  so  glad  to  have 
got  you,  I  would  carry  you  a  league  on  my  back  without  feel- 
ing the  weight.  Anyhow,  comrade,  we  will  make  you  a  litter 
with  branches  and  your  cloak,  and  we  shall  find  horses  at  the 
farm  of  Crespoli." 

"Good,"  said  the  prisoner ;  "you  will  put  a  little  straw  on 
the  litter,  won't  you,  to  make  me  more  comfortable.^" 

While  the  voltigeurs  were  busy,  some  in  making  a  sort  o£ 
stretcher  with  branches  of  a  chestnut-tree,  others  in  dressing 
Gianetto's  wound,  Mateo  Falcone  and  his  wife  appeared 
suddenly  at  the  bend  of  a  path  that  led  to  the  mdquis.  The 
woman  was  in  front,  bending  heavily  under  the  weight  of  a 
huge  sack  of  chestnuts,  while  her  husband  strutted  along. 


154 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


carrying  nothing  but  a  gun  in  his  hand,  and  another  slung  on 
•his  back.  It  is  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  man  to  carry  any 
other  burden  than  his  weapons. 

Mateo's  first  thought  on  seeing  the  soldiers  was  that  they 
had  come  to  arrest  him.  But  why  this  idea?  Had  Mateo 
then  some  quarrel  with  the  law.^  Not  at  all.  He  enjoyed  a 
good  reputation,  tie  was  "well  spoken  of/'  as  the  saying  is ; 
but  he  was  a  Corsican  and  a  mountaineer,  and  there  are  few 
Corsican  mountaineers  who,  if  they  look  well  into  their 
memories,  do  not  find  there  some  peccadillo,  a  gunshot  or  a 
dagger-blow,  or  other  bagatelle.  Mateo  had  a  clearer  con- 
science than  most ;  for  it  was  ten  years  since  he  had  aimed 
his  gun  at  a  man;  but  he  was  prudent  nevertheless,  and  got 
ready  to  make  a  good  defense,  if  need  be. 

"Wife,''  said  he,  to  Giuseppa,  "put  down  your  sack,  and  be 
ready." 

She  instantly  obeyed.  He  gave  her  the  gun  from  his 
bandolier  ^  which  might  have  inconvenienced  him.  He 
cocked  the  one  he  had  in  his  hand,  and  advanced  slowly 
towards  his  house,  keeping  along  the  trees  by  the  side  of  the 
path,  and  ready,  at  the  slightest  sign  of  hostility,  to  throw 
himself  behind  the  biggest  trunk,  whence  he  would  be  able 
to  fire  from  cover.  His  wife  walked  at  his  heels,  holding  his 
spare  gun,  and  his  cartridge-box.  It  is  the  business  of  a  good 
wife,  in  case  of  battle,  to  load  her  husband's  weapons. 

The  adj  utant,  on  the  other  side,  was  considerably  troubled 
at  seeing  Mateo  advance  in  this  manner,  with  measured 
steps,  his  gun  ready,  and  his  finger  at  the  trigger. 

"If  by  chance,"  he  thought,  "Mateo  should  be  a  relation 
of  Gianetto,  or  a  friend,  and  should  wish  to  defend  him,  the 
bullets  of  his  two  guns  will  reach  two  of  us,  as  sure  as  a 
letter  by  post,  and  if  he  should  aim  at  me  in  spite  of  our 
relationship  .  .  .  !" 

8.  A  shoulder  belt  with  cartridge  loops. 


MATEO  FALCONE  155 

In  the  difficulty  he  made  a  very  courageous  resolve,  and 
that  was  to  go  forward  to  meet  Mateo  by  himself,  and  tell 
him  about  the  matter,  accosting  him  as  an  old  acquaint- 
ance; but  the  short  distance  that  separated  him  from  Mateo 
seemed  terribly  long. 

"Hola  there,  old  comrade,"  he  cried,  "how  are  you,  old 
man?     It  is  I,  Gamba,  your  cousin." 

Mateo,  without  answering  a  word,  had  stopped,  and,  as 
the  other  spoke,  slowly  raised  the  barrel  of  his  gun,  so  that 
at  the  moment  when  the  adjutant  came  up  to  him  it  was 
pointed  to  the  sky. 

*'Good-day,  brother,"  said  the  adjutant,  holding  out  his 
hand.     "It  is  a  very  long  time  since  I  last  saw  you." 

"Good-day,  brother." 

"I  had  come  to  give  good-day  to  you  in  passing,  and  to 
my  cousin  Pepa.  We  have  made  a  long  march  today;  but 
we  must  not  complain  of  being  tired,  for  we  have  made  a 
famous  capture.  We  have  just  got  hold  of  Gianetto  San- 
piero." 

"God  be  praised,"  cried  Giuseppa;  "he  robbed  us  of  a 
milch-goat  last  week." 

These  words  rejoiced  Gamba. 

"Poor  devil,"  said  Mateo,  "he  was  hungry." 

"The  rogue  defended  himself  like  a  lion,"  pursued  the 
adjutant,  a  little  taken  aback;  "he  killed  one  of  my  volti- 
geurs,  and,  not  content  with  that,  broke  Corporal  Chardon's 
arm;  but  that  is  no  great  harm,  he  was  only  a  Frenchman. 
.  .  .  Then  he  had  hidden  himself  so  well  that  the  devil 
could  not  have  discovered  him.  Without  my  little  cousin 
Fortunato,  I  should  never  have  been  able  to  find  him." 

"Fortunato !"  cried  Mateo. 

"Fortunato!"  repeated  Giuseppa. 

"Yes,  Gianetto  had  hidden  himself  under  that  hayrick 
over  there ;  but  my  little  cousin  showed  me  the  trick.    I  shall 


156  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

tell  his  uncle  the  Corporal,  and  he  will  send  him  a  fine 
present  for  his  pains.  And  his  name  and  yours  shall  Le 
in  the  report  that  I  send  to  the  Public  Prosecutor," 

"Curse/'  said  Mateo,  very  low. 

They  had  come  up  to  the  soldiers.  Gianetto  was  already 
laid  on  his  litter,  ready  to  start.  When  he  saw  Mateo  with 
Gamba  he  smiled  an  odd  smile;  then,  turning  towards  the 
door  of  the  house,  he  spat  on  the  threshold,  and  said : 

"The  house  of  a  traitor.'' 

Only  a  man  ready  to  die  would  have  dared  to  apply  the 
name  of  traitor  to  Falcone.  A  good  dagger  thrust,  that 
would  leave  no  need  of  a  second,  would  have  instantly 
avenged  the  insult.  But  Mateo's  only  movement  was  to  put 
his  hand  to  his  forehead  like  a  stunned  man. 
^  Fortunato  had  gone  into  the  house  on  seeing  the  arrival 
of  his  father.  He  soon  reappeared  with  a  bowl  of  milk, 
which  he  presented  with  downcast  eyes  to  Gianetto. 

"Keep  off!"  shouted  the  bandit  with  a  voice  of  thunder. 

Then,  turning  to  one  of  the  voltigeurs: 

"Let's  have  a  drink,  comrade,"  he  said. 

The  soldier  put  his  flask  in  his  hands,  and  the  bandit 
drank  the  water  given  him  by  a  man  with  whom  he  had 
just  been  exchanging  gunshots.  Then  he  asked  that  his 
hands  should  be  fastened  crossed  on  his  breast,  instead  of 
tied  behind  his  back. 

"I  like,"  said  he,  "to  lie  at  my  ease." 

They  did  their  best  to  satisfy  him;  then  the  adjutant 
gave  the  signal  for  the  start,  said  "good-bye"  to  Mateo,  who 
did  not  answer,  and  went  down  at  a  smart  pace  towards  the 
plain. 

Ten  minutes  passed  before  Mateo  opened  his  mouth.  The 
child  looked  uneasily,  now  at  his  mother^  and  now  at  his 
/ather,  who,  leaning  on  his  gun,  considered  him  with  an 
expression  of  concentrated  rage. 


MATEO  FALCONE  I57 

"You  begin  well/'  said  Mateo  at  last,  in  a  voice  calm,  but 
terrifying  to  those  who  knew  the  man. 

''Father!"  cried  the  child,  coming  nearer,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  as  if  to  throw  himself  at  his  knees. 

But  Mateo  shouted  at  him: 

"Out  of  my  presence  V 

And  the  child  stopped  short,  and  sobbed,  motionless,  a 
few  steps  from  his  father. 

Giuseppa  came  up.  She  had  just  noticed  the  watch- 
chain,  one  end  of  *which  hung  out  of  Fortunato's  shirt. 

"Who  gave  you  that  watch  .^'*  she  asked  sternly. 

"My  cousin,  the  adjutant." 

Falcone  seized  the  watch,  and,  flinging  it  violently  against 
a  stone,  broke  it  in  a  thousand  pieces. 

"Woman,"  said  he,  "is  this  child  mine?" 

The  brown  cheeks  of  Giuseppa  became  brick  red. 

"What  are  you  saying,  Mateo  .^^  Do  you  know  to  whom 
you  are  speaking?" 

"Well,  this  child  is  the  first  of  his  race  to  be  a  traitor." 

The  sobs  and  chokes  of  Fortunato  redoubled,  and  Falcone 
kept  his  lynx  eyes  always  fixed  upon  him.  At  last  he  struck 
the  ground  with  the  butt  of  his  gun,  then  threw  it  across  his 
shoulder,  and  took  once  more  the  path  to  the  mdquis,  shout- 
ing to  Fortunato  to  follow  him.   The  child  obeyed. 

Giuseppa  ran  after  Mateo  and  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"He  is  your  son,"  she  said  in  a  trembling  voice,  fixing 
her  black  eyes  on  her  husband's  as  if  to  read  what  was 
passing  in  his  soul. 

"Leave  me,"  answered  Mateo ;  "I  am  his  father." 

Giuseppa  kissed  her  son  and  went  weeping  back  into  the 
cottage.  She  threw  herself  on  her  knees  before  an  image 
of  the  Virgin,  and  prayed  fervently.  Meanwhile  Falcone 
walked  some  two  hundred  paces  along  the  path,  and  did 
not  stop  until  he  went  down  into  a  small  ravine.     He  felt 


158 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


the  earth  with  the  butt  of  his  gun,  and  found  it  sofl  and 
easy  to  dig.  The  place  seemed  suitable  to  his  purpose. 

"Fortunato,  go  up  to  that  big  rock." 

The  child  did  as  he  was  told,  and  then  knelt. 

"Say  your  prayers.'* 

"Father,  my  father,  do  not  kill  me." 

"Say  your  prayers !"  repeated  Mateo  in  a  terrible  voice. 

The  child,  stammering  and  sobbing,  recited  the  Pater  and 
the  Credo.  The  father  responded  Amen  in  a  loud' voice  at  the 
end  of  each  prayer. 

"Are  those  all  the  prayers  you  know?" 

"Father,  I  know  the  Ave  Maria  too,  and  the  litany  my 
aunt  taught  me." 

"It  is  very  long,  but  never  mind." 

The  child  finished  the  litany  in  a  stifled  voice. 

"Have  you  done?" 

"O  father,  have  mercy !  forgive  me !  I  will  not  do  it 
again !  I  will  beg  my  cousin  the  Corporal  ever  so  hard  that 
Gianetto  may  be  pardoned !" 

He  was  still  speaking;  Mateo  had  cocked  his  gun,  and 
took  aim,  saying: 

"May  God  forgive  you !" 

The  child  made  a  desperate  effort  to  get  up,  and  embrace 
his  father's  knees;  but  he  had  not  the  time.  Mateo  fired, 
and  Fortunato  fell  stone-dead. 

Without  throwing  a  glance  at  the  corpse,  Mateo  took  the 
path  to  his  house,  to  get  a  spade  for  the  digging  of  his 
son's  grave.  He  had  only  gone  a  few  yards  when  he  met 
Giuseppa,  running,  alarmed  by  the  gunshot. 

"What  have  you  done?"  she  cried. 

"Justice." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"In  the  ravine.  I  am  going  to  bury  him.  He  died  a 
Christian;  I  will  have  a  mass  sung  for  him.  Let  them  tell 
my  son-in-law.  Tiodore  Bianchi,  to  come  and  live  with  us." 


MUSSET 

(1810-1857) 

Alfred  de  Musset  was  born  in  Paris  in  1810.  He  was' 
brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  literary  culture;  and  even 
as  a  boy  he  delighted  in  reading  the  old  romances  with  his 
older  brother,  Paul.  At  the  University  he  studied  both  law 
and  medicine,  but  never  practiced  either  of  these  professions. 
He  gravitated  towards  literature,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty 
created  a  tremendous  sensation  by  a  volume  of  poetry  en- 
titled Stories  of  Spain  and  Italy.  His  romantic  tempera- 
ment drew  him  among  that  group  of  romanticists  who 
flocked  to  the  standards  of  Victor  Hugo.  To  the  French  he 
is  known  primarily  as  a  poet  and  dramatist,  though  English 
readers  know  him  mainly  through  his  stories. 

The  early  part  of  Musset's  life  was  a  brilliant  success. 
He  moved  in  the  first  literary  circles  of  Paris,  knowing 
and  being  known  by  everybody.  His  work  brought  him  the 
honor  of  election  to  the  French  Academy  in  1852.  Unfor- 
tunately, however,  his  life  had  been  an  almost  continuous 
dissipation,  and  this  prematurely  blunted  his  unusual  talents. 
He  was  a  man  of  striking  personality,  but  of  perverse  moods, 
craving  sympathy  and  easily  influenced,  especially  by 
women.  His  last  years  were  spent  most  sadly ;  the  friends 
of  his  better  days  drifted  away  from  him,  and  in  1857, 
when  he  died,  barely  thirty  people  followed  his  body  to 
Pere  Lachaise  cemetery.  Among  those  who  remained  devot- 
edly loyal  to  him  throughout  his  life,  and  to  his  memory 
after  death,  were  his  mother,  his  sister,  and  his  brother  Paul. 

Like  Byron,  Musset  assumed  an  air  of  melancholy  in  his 
life  and  often  let  it  appear  in  his  work,  especially  in  his 
poetry.  His  prose  stories  number  only  about  a  dozen,  and 
all  have  the  lively  charm  that  goes  with  the  chronicle  of 
young  love. 

159 


IQQ  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

Mussel's  genius  cared  little  for  time  or  place.  He  is 
equally  fascinating  whether  his  scene  is  laid  in  remote  times 
or  in  the  Paris  of  his  own  day.  Croisilles  (1839)^  selected 
for  this  volume,  is  a  story  of  Havre  during  the  reign  of 
Louis  XV. 

CROISILLES*      * 

By  ALFRED  DE  MUSSBT 

I 

At  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XV,  a  young  man 
named  Croisilles,  son  of  a  goldsmith,  was  returning  from 
Paris  to  Havre,  his  native  town.  He  had  been  intrusted 
by  his  father  with  the  transaction  of  some  business,  and  his 
trip  to  the  great  city  having  turned  out  satisfactorily,  the 
joy  of  bringing  good  news  caused  him  to  walk  the  sixty 
leagues  more  gaily  and  briskly  than  was  his  wont;  for, 
though  he  had  a  rather  large  sum  of  money  in  his  pocket, 
he  traveled  on  foot  for  pleasure.  He  was  a  good-tempered 
fellow,  and  not  without  wit,  but  so  very  thoughtless  and 
flighty  that  people  looked  upon  him  as  being  rather  weak- 
minded.  His  doublet  buttoned  awry,  his  periwig  flying  to 
the  wind,  his  hat  under  his  arm,  he  followed  the  banks  of 
the  Seine,  at  times  finding  enjoyment  in  his  own  thoughts 
and  again  indulging  in  snatches  of  song;  up  at  daybreak, 
supping  at  wayside  inns,  and  always  charmed  with  this  stroll 
of  his  through  one  of  the  most  beautiful  regions  of  France. 
Plundering  the  apple-trees  of  Normandy  on  his  way,  he 
puzzled  his  brain  to  find  rhymes  (for  all  these  rattlepates 
are  more  or  less  poets),  and  tried  hard  to  turn  out  a  mad- 
rigal for  a  certain  fair  damsel  of  his  native  place.  She  was 
no  less  than  a  daughter  of  a  fermier-general.  Mademoiselle 
Godeau,  the  pearl  of  Havre,  a  rich  heiress,  and  much 
*  Copyright,  1888,   by  Brentano's. 


CROISILLES  Igl 

courted.  Croisilles  was  not  received  at  M.  Godeau's  other- 
wise than  in  a  casual  sort  of  way,  that  is  to  say,  he  had 
sometimes  himself  taken  there  articles  of  jewelry  purchased 
at  his  father's.  M.  Godeau,  whose  somewhat  vulgar  sur- 
name ill-fitted  his  immense  fortune,  avenged  himself  by  his 
arrogance  for  the  stigma  of  his  birth,  and  showed  himself 
on  all  occasions  enormously  and  pitilessly  rich.  He  cer- 
tainly was  not  the  man  to  allow  the  son  of  a  goldsmith  to 
enter  his  drawing-room;  but,  as  Mademoiselle  Godeau  had 
the  most  beautiful  eyes  in  the  world,  and  Croisilles  was  not 
ill-favored;  and  as  nothing  can  prevent  a  fine  fellow  from 
falling  in  love  with  a  pretty  girl,  Croisilles  adored  Madem- 
oiselle Godeau,  who  did  not  seem  vexed  thereat.  Thus  was 
he  thinking  of  her  as  he  turned  his  steps  toward  Havre; 
and,  as  he  had  never  reflected  seriously  upon  anything,  in- 
stead of  thinking  of  the  invincible  obstacles  which  separated 
him  from  his  lady-love,  he  busied  himself  only  with  finding  a 
rhyme  for  the  Christian  name  she  bore.  Mademoiselle 
Godeau  was  called  Julie,  and  the  rhyme  was  found  easily 
enough.  So  Croisilles,  having  reached  Honfleur,  embarked 
with  a  satisfied  heart,  his  money  and  his  madrigal  in  his 
pocket,  and  as  soon  as  he  jumped  ashore  ran  to  the  paternal 
house. 

He  found  the  shop  closed,  and  knocked  again  and  again, 
not  without  astonishment  and  apprehension,  for  it  was  not  a 
holiday ;  but  nobody  came.  He  called  his  father,  but  in  vain. 
He  went  to  a  neighbor's  to  ask  what  had  happened ;  instead 
of  replying,  the  neighbor  turned  away,  as  though  not  wishing 
to  recognize  him.  Croisilles  repeated  his  questions;  he 
learned  that  his  father,  his  affairs  having  long  been  in  an 
embarrassed  condition,  had  just  become  bankrupt,  and  had 
fled  to  America,  abandoning  to  his  creditors  all  that  he 
possessed. 

Not  realizing  as  yet  the  extent  of  his  misfortune,  Croisilles 

6 


162  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

felt  overwhelmed  by  the  thought  that  he  might  never  again 
see  his  father.  It  seemed  to  him  incredible  that  he  should  be 
thus  suddenly  abandoned ;  he  tried  to  force  an  entralice  into 
the  store ;  but  was  given  to  understand  that  the  official  seals 
had  been  affixed ;  so  he  sat  down  on  a  stone,  and  giving  way 
to  his  grief,  began  to  weep  piteously,  deaf  to  the  consolations 
of  those  around  him,  never  ceasing  to  call  his  father's  name, 
though  he  knew  him  to  be  already  far  away.  At  last  he  rose, 
ashamed  at  seeing  a  crowd  about  him,  and,  in  the  most  pro- 
found despair,  turned  his  steps  towards  the  harbor. 

On  reaching  the  pier,  he  walked  straight  before  him  like 
a  man  in  a  trance,  who  knows  neither  where  he  is  going,  nor 
what  is  to  become  of  him.  He  saw  himself  irretrievably  lost, 
possessing  no  longer  a  shelter,  no  means  of  rescue  and,  of 
course,  no  longer  any  friends.  Alone,  wandering  on  the  sea- 
shore, he  felt  tempted  to  drown  himself,  then  and  there. 
Just  at  the  moment  when,  yielding  to  this  thought,  he  was 
advancing  to  the  edge  of  a  high  cliff,  an  old  servant  named 
Jean,  who  had  served  his  family  for.  a  number  of  years,, 
arrived  on  the  scene. 

"Ah !  my  poor  Jean !"  he  exclaimed,  "y^^  know  all  that  has 
happened  since  I  went  away.  Is  it  possible  that  my  father 
could  leave  us  without  warning,  without  farewell?" 

'"He  is  gone,"  answered  Jean,  "but  indeed  not  without 
saying  good-bye  to  you." 

At  the  same  time  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  letter,  which 
he  gave  to  his  young  master.  Croisilles  recognized  the  hand- 
writing of  his  father,  and,  before  opening  the  letter,  kissed  it 
rapturously ;  but  it  contained  only  a  few  words.  Instead  of 
feeling  his  trouble  softened,  it  seemed  to  the  young  man  still 
harder  to  bear.  Honorable  until  then,  and  known  as  such, 
the  old  gentleman,  ruined  by  an  unforeseen  disaster  (the 
bankruptcy  of  a  partner),  had  left  for  his  son  nothing  but  a 
few  commonplace  words  of  consolation,  and  no  hope,  except. 


CROISILLES  163 

perhaps^  that  vagiie  hope  without  aim  or  reason^  which  con- 
stitutes^ it  is  said^  the  last  possession  one  loses. 

**Jean^  my  friend^  3^ou  carried  me  in  your  arms/'  said 
Croisilles^  when  he  had  read  the  letter^  "and  you  certainly 
are  today  the  only  being  who  loves  me  at  all;  it  is  a  very 
sweet  thing  to  me^  but  a  very  sad  one  for  you ;  for,  as  sure  as 
my  father  embarked  there,  I  will  throw  myself  into  the  same 
sea  which  is  bearing  him  away ;  not  before  you  nor  at  once, 
but  some  day  I  will  do  it,  for  I  am  lost/' 

"What  can  you  do?"  replied  Jean,  not  seeming  to  have 
understood,  but  holding  fast  to  the  skirt  of  Croisilles'  coat. 
"What  can  you  do,  my  dear  master.^  Your  father  was  de- 
ceived ;  he  was  expecting  money  which  did  not  come,  and  it 
was  no  small  amount,  either.  Could  he  stay  here?  I  have 
seen  him,  sir,  as  he  made  his  fortune,  during  the  thirty  years 
that  I  served  him ;  I  have  seen  him  working,  attending  to  his 
business,  the  crown-pieces  ^  coming  in  one  by  one.  He  was 
an  honorable  man,  and  skillful;  they  took  a  cruel  advantage 
of  him.  Within  the  last  few  days,  I  was  still  there,  and  as 
fast  as  the  crowns  came  in,  I  saw  them  go  out  of  the  shop 
again.  Your  father  paid  all  he  could,  for  a  whole  day,  and, 
when  his  desk  was  empty,  he  could  not  help  telling  me, 
pointing  to  a  drawer  where  but  six  francs  ^  remained : 
*There  were  a  hundred  thousand  francs  there  this  morning !' 
That  does  not  look  like  a  rascally  failure,  sir?  There  is 
nothing  in  it  that  can  dishonor  you.'' 

"I  have  no  more  doubt  of  my  father's  integrity,"  answered 
Croisilles;  "than  I  have  of  his  misfortune.  Neither  do  I 
doubt  his  affection.  But  I  wish  I  could  have  kissed  him,  for 
what  is  to  become  of  me  ?  I  am  not  accustomed  to  poverty,  I 
have  not  the  necessary  cleverness  to  build  up  my  fortune. 
And,  if  I  had  it,  my  father  is  gone.    It  took  him  thirty  years, 

1.  Obsolete  French  coins  worth  $1.12. 

2.  A  franc  is  worth  twenty  cents. 


IQ^  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

how  long  would  it  take  me  to  repair  this  disaster?  Much 
longer.  And  will  he  be  living  then?  Certainly  not;  he  will 
die  over  there,  and  I  cannot  even  go  and  find  him ;  I  can  j  oin 
him  only  by  dying/' 

Utterly  distressed  as  Croisilles  was,  he  possessed  much 
religious  feeling.  Although  his  despondency  made  him  wish 
for  death,  he  hesitated  to  take  his  life.  At  the  first  words  of 
this  interview,  he  had  taken  hold  of  old  Jean's  arm,  and  thus 
both  returned  to  the  town.  When  they  had  entered  the 
streets  and  the  sea  was  no  longer  so  near : 

"It  seems  to  me,  sir,'*  said  Jean,  **that  a  good  man  has  a 
right  to  live  and  that  a  misfortune  proves  nothing.  Since 
your  father  has  not  killed  himself,  thank  God,  how  can  you 
think  of  dying?  Since  there  is  no  dishonor  in  his  case,  and 
all  the  town  knows  it  is  so,  what  would  they  think  of  you? 
That  you  felt  unable  to  endure  poverty.  It  would  be  neither 
brave  nor  Christian ;  for,  at  the  very  worst,  what  is  there  to 
frighten  you?  There  are  plenty  of  people  born  poor,  and 
who  have  never  had  either  mother  or  father  to  help  them  on. 
I  know  thai  we  are  not  all  alike,  but,  after  all,  nothing  is 
impossible  to  God.  What  would  you  do  in  such  a  case? 
Your  father  was  not  born  rich,  far  from  it, — meaning  no 
offense — and  that  is  perhaps  what  consoles  him  now.  If 
you  had  been  here,  this  last  month,  it  would  have  given  you 
courage.  Yes,  sir,  a  man  may  be  ruined,  nobody  is  secure 
from  bankruptcy ;  but  your  father,  I  make  bold  to  say,  has 
borne  himself,  through  it  all,  like  a  man,  though  he  did  leave 
us  so  hastily.  But  what  could  he  do?  It  is  not  every  day 
that  a  vessel  starts  for  America.  I  accompanied  him  to  the 
wharf,  and  if  you  had  seen  how  sad  he  was  !  How  he  charged 
me  to  take  care  of  you ;  to  send  him  news  from  you ! — Sir, 
it  is  a  right  poor  idea  you  have,  that  throwing  the  helve 
after  the  hatchet.  Every  one  has  his  time  of  trial  in  this 
world,  and  I  was  a  soldier  before  I  was  a  servant.     I  suf- 


CROISILLES  165 

fered  severely  at  the  time^  but  I  was  young;  I  was  of  your 
age^  sir^  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  Providence  could  not  have 
spoken  His  last  word  to  a  young  man  of  twenty-five.  Why 
do  you  vrish  to  prevent  the  kind  God  from  repairing  the  evil 
that  has  befallen  you?  Give  Him  time^  and  all  will  come 
right.  If  I  might  advise  you^  I  would  say^  just  wait  two 
or  three  years,  and  I  will  answer  for  it,  you  will  come  out 
all  right.  It  is  always  easy  to  go  out  of  this  world.  Why 
will  you  seize  an  unlucky  moment.^*' 

While  Jean  was  thus  exerting  himself  to  persuade  his 
master,  the  latter  walked  in  silence,  and,  as  those  who  suffer 
often  do,  was  looking  this  way  and  that  as  though  seeking  for 
something  which  might  bind  him  to  life.  As  chance  would 
have  it,  at  this  juncture,  Mademoiselle  Godeau,  the  daughter 
of  the  fermier-general,  happened  to  pass  with  her  governess. 
The  mansion  in  which  she  lived  was  not  far  distant;  Crois- 
illes  saw  her  enter  it.  This  meeting  produced  on  him  more 
effect  than  all  the  reasonings  in  the  world.  I  have  said  that 
he  was  rather  erratic,  and  nearly  always  yielded  to  the  first 
impulse.  Without  hesitating  an  instant,  and  without  ex- 
planation, he  suddenly  left  the  arm  of  his  old  servant,  and 
crossing  the  street,  knocked  at  Monsieur  Godeau's  door. 

II 

When  we  try  to  picture  to  ourselves,  nowadays,  what  was 
called  a  ^'financier"  in  times  gone  by,  we  invariably  imagine 
enormous  corpulence,  short  legs,  a  gigantic  wig,  and  a  broad 
face  with  a  triple  chin, — and  it  is  not  without  reason  that 
we  have  become  accustomed  to  form  such  a  picture  of  such  a 
personage.  Everyone  knows  to  what  great  abuses  the  royal 
taxfarming  led,  and  it  seems  as  though  there  were  a  law  of 
nature  which  renders  fatter  than  the  rest  of  mankind  those 
who  fatten,  not  only  upon  their  own  laziness,  but  also  upon 
the  work  of  others. 


166  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

Monsieur  Godeau,  among  financiers^  was  one  of  the  most 
classical  to  be  found, — that  is  to  say,  one  of  the  fattest.  At 
the  present  time  he  had  the  gout,  which  was  nearly  as  fash- 
ionable in  his  day  as  the  nervous  headache  is  in  ours. 
Stretched  upon  a  lounge,  his  eyes  half-closed,  he  was  cod- 
dling himself  in  the  coziest  corner  of  a  dainty  boudoir.  The 
panel-mirrors  which  surrounded  him,  maj  estically  duplicated 
on  every  side  his  enormous  person;  bags  filled  with  gold  cov- 
ered the  table;  around  him,  the  furniture,  the  wainscot,  the 
doors,  the  locks,  the  mantel-piece,  the  ceiling  were  gilded ;  so 
was  his  coat.  I  do  not  know  but  that  his  brain  was  gilded 
too.  He  was  calculating  the  issue  of  a  little  business  affair 
which  could  not  fail  to  bring  him  a  few  thousand  louis ;  ^ 
and  was  even  deigning  to  smile  over  it  to  himself  when 
Croisilles  was  announced.  The  young  man  entered  with  an 
humble,  but  resolute  air,  and  with  every  outward  manifesta- 
tion of  that  inward  tumult  with  which  we  find  no  difficulty 
in  crediting  a  man  who  is  longing  to  drown  himself.  Mon- 
sieur Godeau  was  a  little  surprised  at  this  unexpected  visit ; 
then  he  thought  his  daughter  had  been  buying  some  trifle, 
and  was  confirmed  in  that  thought  by  seeing  her  appear 
almost  at  the  same  time  with  the  young  man.  He  made  a 
sign  to  Croisilles  not  to  sit  down  but  to  speak.  The  young 
lady  seated  herself  on  a  sofa,  and  Croisilles,  remaining 
standing,  expressed  himself  in  these  terms : 

"Sir,  my  father  has  failed.  The  bankruptcy  of  a  partner 
has  forced  him  to  suspend  his  payments,  and  unable  to  wit- 
ness his  own  shame,  he  has  fled  to  America,  after  having  paid 
his  last  sou^  to  his  creditors.  I  was  absent  when  all  this 
happened;  I  have  just  come  back  and  have  known  of  these 
events  only  two  hours.  I  am  absolutely  without  resources, 
and  determined  to  die.     It  is  very  probable  that,  on  leaving 

3.  A  gold  coin  worth  $4.00. 

4.  One  cent. 


CROISILLES  157 

your  house,  I  shall  throw  myself  into  the  water.  In  all 
probability,  I  would  already  have  done  so,  if  I  had  not 
chanced  to  meet,  at  the  very  moment,  this  young  lady,  your 
daughter.  I  love  her,  sir,  from  the  very  depths  of  my  heart ; 
for  two  years  I  have  been  in  love  with  her,  and  my  silence, 
until  now,  proves  better  than  anything  else  the  respect  I  feel 
for  her ;  but  today,  in  declaring  my  passion  to  you,  I  fulfill 
an  imperative  duty,  and  I  would  think  I  was  offending  God, 
if,  before  giving  myself  over  to  death,  I  did  not  come  to  ask 
you  Mademoiselle  Julie  in  marriage.  I  have  not  the  slightest 
hope  that  you  will  grant  this  request;  but  I  have  to  make  it. 
nevertheless,  for  I  am  a  good  Christian,  sir,  and  when  a  good 
Christian  sees  himself  come  to  such  a  point  of  misery  that 
he  can  no  longer  suffer  life,  he  must  at  least,  to  extenuate  his 
crime,  exhaust  all  the  chances  which  remain  to  him  before 
taking  the  final  and  fatal  step.'* 

At  the  beginning  of  this  speech.  Monsieur  Godeau  had  sup- 
posed that  the  young  man  came  to  borrow  money,  and  so  he 
prudently  threw  his  handkerchief  over  the  bags  that  were 
lying  around  him,  preparing  in  advance  a  refusal,  and  a 
polite  one,  for  he  always  felt  some  good-will  toward  the 
father  of  Croisilles.  But  when  he  had  heard  the  young  man 
to  the  end,  and  understood  the  purport  of  his  visit,  he  never 
doubted  one  moment  but  that  the  poor  fellow  had  gone  com- 
pletely mad.  He  was  at  first  tempted  to  ring  the  bell  and 
have  him  put  out ;  but,  noticing  his  firm  demeanor,  his  deter- 
mined look,  the  fermier-general  took  pity  on  so  inoffensive  a 
case  of  insanity.  He  merely  told  his  daughter  to  retire,  so 
that  she  might  be  no  longer  exposed  to  hearing  such  impro- 
prieties. 

While  Croisilles  was  speaking.  Mademoiselle  Godeau  had 
blushed  as  a  peach  in  the  month  of  August.  At  her  father's 
bidding,  she  retired,  the  young  man  making  her  a  profound 
bow,  which  she  did  not  seem  to  notice.     Left  alone  with 


IQg  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

Croisilles,  Monsieur  Gode^au  coughed,  rose,  then  dropped 
again  upon  the  cushions,  and,  trying  to  assume  a  paternal 
air,  delivered  himself  to  the  following  effect : 

"My  boy,"  said  he,  **I  am  willing  to  believe  that  you  are 
not  poking  fun  at  me,  but  you  have  really  lost  your  head.  I 
not  only  excuse  this  proceeding,  but  I  consent  not  to  punish 
you  for  it.  I  am  sorry  that  your  poor  devil  of  a  father  has  > 
become  bankrupt  and  has  skipped.  It  is  indeed  very  sad, 
and  I  quite  understand  that  such  a  misfortune  should  affect 
your  brain.  Besides,  I  wish  to  do  something  for  you;  so 
take  this  stool  and  sit  down  there." 

"It  is  useless,  sir,"  answered  Croisilles.  "If  you  refuse 
me,  as  I  see  you  do,  I  have  nothing  left  but  to  take  my  leave. 
I  wish  you  every  good  fortune." 

"And  where  are  you  going  .f*" 

"To  write  to  my  father  and  say  good-bye  to  him." 

"Eh !  the  devil !  Any  one  would  swear  you  were  speaking 
the  truth.  Ill  be  damned  if  I  don't  think  you  are  going  to 
drown  yourself." 

"Yes,  sir ;  at  least  I  think  so,  if  my  courage  does  not  for- 
sake me." 

"That's  a  bright  idea !  Fie  on  you !  How  can  you  be  such 
a  fool.^    Sit  down,  sir,  I  tell  you,  and  listen  to  me." 

Monsieur  Godeau  had  just  made  a  very  wise  reflection, 
which  was  that  it  is  never  agreeable  to  have  it  said  that  a 
man,  whoever  he  may  be,  threw  himself  into  the  water  on 
leaving  your  house.  He  therefore  coughed  once  more,  took 
his  snuff-box,  cast  a  careless  glance  upon  his  shirtfrill,  and 
continued : 

"It  is  evident  that  you  are  nothing  but  a  simpleton,  a  fool, 
a  regular  baby.  You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  You 
are  ruined,  that's  what  has  happened  to  you.  But,  my  dear 
friend,  all  that  is  not  enough;  one  must  reflect  upon  the 
things  of  this  world.     If  you  came  to  ask  me — well,  good 


CROISILLES  169 

advice^  for  instance, — I  might  give  it  to  you;  but  what  is  it 
you  are  after  ?    You  are  in  love  with  my  daughter  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  and  I  repeat  to  you,  that  I  am  far  from  sui3pos- 
ing  that  you  can  give  her  to  me  in  marriage;  but  as  there  is 
nothing  in  the  world  but  that,  which  could  prevent  me  from 
dying,  if  you  believe  in  God,  as  I  do  not  doubt  you  do,  you 
will  understand  the  reason  that  brings  me  here/* 

"Whether  I  believe  in  God  or  not,  is  no  business  of  yours. 
I  do  not  intend  to  be  questioned.  Answer  me  first:  where 
have  you  seen  my  daughter?" 

"In  my  father's  shop,  and  in  this  house,  when  I  brought 
jewelry  for  Mademoiselle  Julie." 

"Who  told  you  her  name  was  Julie  .^  What  are  we  coming 
to,  great  heavens !  But  be  her  name  Julie  or  Javotte,  do  you 
know  what  is  wanted  in  any  one  who  aspires  to  the  hand  of 
the  daughter  of  a  fermier-general?" 

"No,  I  am  completely  ignorant  of  it,  unless  it  is  to  be  as 
rich  as  she." 

"Something  more  is  necessary,  my  boy;  you  must  have  a 
name/' 

"Well !  my  name  is  Croisilles." 

"Your  name  is  Croisilles,  poor  wretch  !  Do  you  call  that  a 
name?" 

"Upon  my  soul  and  conscience,  sir,  it  seems  to  me  to  be  as 
good  a  name  as  Godeau." 

"You  are  very  impertinent,  sir,  and  you  sh|ill  rue  it." 

"Indeed,  sir,  do  not  be  angry;  I  had  not  the  least  idea  of 
offending  you.  If  you  see  in  what  I  said  anything  to  wound 
you,  and  wish  to  punish  me  for  it,  there  is  no  need  to  get 
angry.  Have  I  not  told  you  that  on  leaving  here  I  am  going 
straight  to  drown  myself?'* 

Although  M.  Godeau  had  promised  himself  to  send  Crois- 
illes away  as  gently  as  possible,  in  order  to  avoid  all  scandal, 
his  prudence  could  not  resist  the  vexation  of  his  wounded 


YIQ  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

pride.  The  interview  to  which  he  had  to  resign  himself  was 
monstrous  enough  in  itself;  it  may  be  imagined  then^  what 
he  felt  at  hearing  himself  spoken  to  in  such  terms. 

"Listen/*  he  said,  almost  beside  himself,  and  determined 
to  close  the  matter  at  any  cost.  "You  are  not  such  a  fool  that 
you  cannot  understand  a  word  of  common  sense.  Are  you 
rich.'*  No.  Are  you  noble?  Still  less  so.  What  is  this 
frenzy  that  brings  you  here?  You  come  to  worry  me;  you 
think  you  are  doing  something  clever;  you  know  perfectly 
well  that  it  is  useless ;  you  wish  to  make  me  responsible  for 
your  death.  Have  you  any  right  to  complain  of  me?  Do  I 
owe  a  sou  to  your  father?  Is  it  my  fault  that  you  have  come 
to  this  ?  Mon  Dieu  !  When  a  man  is  going  to  drown  himself, 
he  keeps  quiet  about  it — " 

"That  is  what  I  am  going  to  do  now.  I  am  your  very 
humble  servant." 

"One  moment !  It  shall  not  be  said  that  you  had  recourse 
to  me  in  vain.  There,  my  boy,  here  are  three  louis  d'or ;  go 
and  have  dinner  in  the  kitchen,  and  let  me  hear  no  more 
about  you." 

"Much  obliged;  I  am  not  hungry,  and  I  have  no  use  for 
your  money." 

So  Croisilles  left  the  room,  and  the  financier,  having  set 
his  conscience  at  rest  by  the  offer  he  had  just  made,  settled 
himself  more  comfortably  in  his  chair,  and  resumed  his 
meditations.       ^ 

Mademoiselle  Godeau,  during  this  time,  was  not  so  far 
away  as  one  might  suppose;  she  had,  it  is  true,  withdrawn 
in  obedience  to  her  father ;  but,  instead  of  going  to  her  room, 
she  had  remained  listening  behind  the  door.  If  the  extrav- 
agance of  Croisilles  seemed  incredible  to  her,  still  she  found 
nothing  to  offend  her  in  it;  for  love,  since  the  world  has 
existed,  has  never  passed  as  an  insult.  On  the  other  hand, 
as  it  was  not  possible  to  doubt  the  despair  of  the  young  man. 


CROISILLES  171 

Mademoiselle  Godeau  found  herself  a  victim,  at  one  and  the 
same  time,  to  the  two  sentiments  most  dangerous  to  women — 
compassion  and  curiosity.  When  she  saw  the  interview  at  an 
end,  and  Croisilles  ready  to  come  out,  she  rapidly  crossed  the 
drawing-room  where  she  stood,  not  wishing  to  be  surprised 
eavesdropping,  and  hurried  towards  her  apartment ;  but  she 
almost  immediately  retraced  her  steps.  The  idea  that  per- 
haps Croisilles  was  really  going  to  put  an  end  to  his  life 
troubled  her  in  spite  of  herself.  Scarcely  aware  of  what  she 
was  doing,  she  walked  to  meet  him;  the  drawing-room  was 
large,  and  the  two  young  people  came  slowly  towards  each 
other.  Croisilles  was  as  pale  as  death,  and  Mademoiselle 
Godeau  vainly  sought  words  to  express  her  feelings.  In 
passing  beside  him,  she  let  fall  on  the  floor  a  bunch  of  violets 
which  she  held  in  her  hand.  He  at  once  bent  down  and 
picked  up  the  bouquet  in  order  to  give  it  back  to  her,  but 
instead  of  taking  it,  she  passed  on  without  uttering  a  word, 
and  entered  her  father's  room.  Croisilles,  alone  again,  put 
the  flowers  in  his  breast,  and  left  the  house  with  a  troubled 
heart,  not  knowing  what  to  think  of  his  adventure. 

Ill 

Scarcely  had  he  taken  a  few  step  in  the  street,  when  he 
saw  his  faithful  friend  Jean  running  towards  him  with  a 
joyful  face. 

"What  has  happened.^"  he  asked;  ''have  you  news  to  tell 
me?" 

"Yes,''  replied  Jean ;  "I  have  to  tell  you  that  the  seals  have 
been  officially  broken  and  that  you  can  enter  your  home.  All 
your  father's  debts  being  paid,  you  remain  the  owner  of  the 
house.  It  is  true  that  all  the  money  and  all  the  jewels  have 
been  taken  away ;  but  at  least  the  house  belongs  to  you,  and 
you  have  not  lost  everything.    I  have  been  running  about  for 


172  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

an  hour,  not  knowing  what  had  become  of  you^  and  I  hope^ 
my  dear  master^  that  you  will  now  be  wise  enough  to  take  a 
reasonable  course/' 

"What  course  do  you  wish  me  to  take?" 

"Sell  this-house,  sir,  it  is  all  your  fortune.  It  will  bring  you 
about  thirty  thousand  francs.  With  that  at  any  rate  you  will 
not  die  of  hunger ;  and  what  is  to  prevent  you  from  buying  a 
little  stock  in  trade^  and  starting  business  for  yourself  }  You 
would  surely  prosper.'* 

"We  shall  see  about  this/'  answered  Croisilles,  as  he  hur- 
ried to  the  street  where  his  home  was.  He  was  eager  to  see 
the  paternal  roof  again.  But  when  he  arrived  there  so  sad 
a  spectacle  met  his  gaze,  that  he  had  scarcely  the  courage  to 
enter.  The  shop  was  in  utter  disorder,  the  rooms  deserted, 
his  father's  alcove  empty.  Everything  presented  to  his  eyes 
the  wretchedness  of  utter  ruin.  Not  a  chair  remained;  all 
the  drawers  had  been  ransacked,  the  till  broken  open,  the 
chest  taken  away ;  nothing  had  escaped  the  greedy  search  of 
creditors  and  lawyers ;  who,  after  having  pillaged  the  house, 
had  gone,  leaving  the  doors  open,  as  though  to  testify  to  all 
passers-by  how  neatly  their  work  was  done. 

"This,  then,"  exclaimed  Croisilles,  "is  all  that  remains 
after  thirty  years  of  work  and  a  respectable  life, — and  all 
through  the  failure  to  have  ready,  on  a  given  day,  money 
enough  to  honor  a  signature  imprudently  given !" 

While  the  young  man  walked  up  and  down  given  over  to 
the  saddest  thoughts,  Jean  seemed  very  much  embarrassed. 
He  supposed  that  his  master  was  without  ready  money,  and 
that  he  might  perhaps  not  even  have  dined.  He  was  there- 
fore trying  to  think  of  some  way  to  question  him  on  the 
subject,  and  to  offer  him,  in  case  of  need,  some  part  of  his 
savings.  After  having  tortured  his  mind  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  to  try  and  hit  upon  some  way  of  leading  up  to  the 
subject,  he  could  find  nothing  better  than  to  come  up  to  Crois- 


CROISILLES  173 

illes^  and  ask  him,  in  a  kindly  voice : 

"Sir,  do  you  still  like  roast  partridges  ?'* 

The  poor  man  uttered  this  question  in  a  tone  at  once  so 
comical  and  so  touching,  that  Croisilles,  in  spite  of  his  sad- 
ness, could  not  refrain  from  laughing. 

"And  why  do  you  ask  me  that?"  said  he. 

"My  wife,"  replied  Jean,  "is  cooking  me  some  for  dinner, 
sir,  and  if  by  chance  you  still  liked  them — " 

Croisilles  had  completely  forgotten  till  now  the  money 
which  he  was  bringing  back  to  his  father.  Jean's  proposal 
reminded  him  that  his  pockets  were  full  of  gold. 

"I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,"  said  he  to  the  old  man, 
"and  I  accept  your  dinner  with  pleasure;  but,  if  you  are 
anxious  about  my  fortune,  be  reassured.  I  have  more 
money  than  I  need  to  have  a  good  supper  this  evening,  which 
you,  in  your  turn,  will  share  with  me." 

Saying  this,  he  laid  upon  the  mantel  four  well-filled 
purses,  which  he  emptied,  each  containing  fifty  louis. 

"Although  this  sum  does  not  belong  to  me,"  he  added,  "I 
can  use  it  for  a  day  or  two.  To  whom  must  I  go  to  have  it 
forwarded  to  my  father  ?" 

"Sir,"  replied  Jean,  eagerly,  "your  father  especially 
charged  me  to  tell  you  that  this  money  belongs  to  you,  and, 
if  I  did  not  speak  of  it  before,  it  was  because  I  did  not  know 
how  your  affairs  in  Paris  had  turned  out.  Where  he  has 
gone  your  father  will  want  for  nothing;  he  will  lodge  with 
one  of  your  correspondents,  who  will  receive  him  most  gladly ; 
he  has  moreover  taken  with  him  enough  for  his  immediate 
needs,  for  he  was  quite  sure  of  still  leaving  behind  more  than 
was  •necessary  to  pay  all  his  just  debts.  All  that  he  has  left, 
sir,  is  yours ;  he  says  so  himself  in  his  letter,  and  I  am  espe- 
cially charged  to  repeat  it  to  you.  That  gold  is,  therefore, 
legitimately  your  property,  as  this  house  in  which  We  are 
now.     I  can  repeat  to  you  the  very  words  your  father  said 


174  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

to  me  on  embarking:  'May  my  son  forgive  me  for  leaving 
him;  may  he  remember  that  I  am  still  in  the  world  only  to 
love  him,  and  let  him  use  what  remains  after  my  debts  are 
paid  as  though  it  were  his  inheritance/  Those,  sir,  are  his 
own  expressions ;  so  put  this  back  in  your  pocket,  and,  since 
you  accept  my  dinner,  pray  let  us  go  home/' 

The  honest  joy  which  shone  in  Jean's  eyes,  left  no  doubt 
in  the  mind  of  Croisilles.  The  words  of  his  father  had  moved 
him  to  such  a  point  that  he  could  not  restrain  his  tears ;  on 
the  other  hand,  at  such  a  moment,  four  thousand  francs  were 
no  bagatelle.  As  to  the  house,  it  was  not  an  available  re- 
source, for  one  could  realize  on  it  only  by  selling  it,  and  that 
was  both  difficult  and  slow.  All  this,  however,  could  not  but 
make  a  considerable  change  in  the  situation  the  young  man 
found  himself  in ;  so  he  felt  suddenly  moved — shaken  in  his 
dismal  resolution,  and,  so  to  speak,  both  sad  and,  at  the  same 
time,  relieved  of  much  of  his  distress.  After  having  closed 
the  shutters  of  the  shop,  he  left  the  house  with  Jean,  and  as 
he  once  more  crossed  the  town,  could  not  help  thinking  how 
small  a  thing  our  affections  are,  since  they  sometimes  serve 
to  make  us  find  an  unforeseen  joy  in  the  faintest  ray  of  hope. 
It  was  with  this  thought  that  he  sat  down  to  dinner  beside 
his  old  servant,  who  did  not  fail,  during  the  repast,  to  make 
every  effort  to  cheer  him. 

Heedless  people  have  a  happy  fault.  They  are  easily  cast 
down,  but  they  have  not  even  the  trouble  to  console  them- 
selves, so  changeable  is  their  mind.  It  would  be  a  mistake 
to  think  them,  on  that  account,  insensible  or  selfish;  on  the 
contrary  they  perhaps  feel  more  keenly  than  others  and  are 
but  too  prone  to  blow  their  brains  out  in  a  moment  of  deSpair ; 
but,  this  moment  once  passed,  if  they  are  still  alive,  they  must 
dine,  they  must  eat,  they  must  drink,  as  usual ;  only  to  melt 
into  tears  again,  at  bed-time.  Joy  and  pain  do  not  glide  over 
them  but  pierce  them  through  like  arrows.    Kind,  hot-headed 


CROISILLES  175 

natures  which  know  how  to  suffer,  but  not  how  to  lie,  through 
which  one  can  clearly  read, — not  fragile  and  empty  like 
glass,  but  solid  and  transparent  like  rock  crystal. 

After  having  clinked  glasses  with  Jean,  Croisilles,  instead 
of  drowning  himself,  went  to  the  play.  Standing  at  the  back 
of  the  pit,  he  drew  from  his  bosom  Mademoiselle  Godeau's 
bouquet,  and,  as  he  breathed  the  perfume  in  deep  meditation, 
he  began  to  think  in  a  calmer  spirit  about  his  adventure  of 
the  morning.  As  soon  as  he  had  pondered  over  it  for  awhile, 
he  saw  clearly  the  truth ;  that  is  to  say,  that  the  young  lady, 
in  leaving  the  bouquet  in  his  hands,  and  in  refusing  to  take 
it  back,  had  wished  to  give  him  a  mark  of  interest ;  for  other- 
wise this  refusal  and  this  silence  could  only  have  been  marks 
of  contempt,  and  such  a  supposition  was  not  possible.  Crois- 
illes, therefore,  judged  that  Mademoiselle  Godeau's  heart 
was  of  a  softer  grain  than  her  father's  and  he  remembered 
distinctly  that  the  young  lady's  face,  when  she  crossed  the 
drawing-room,  had  expressed  an  emotion  the  moi:e  true  that 
it  seemed  involuntary.  But  was  this  emotion  one  of  love,  or 
only  of  sympathy  ?  Or  was  it  perhaps  something  of  still  less 
importance, — mere  commonplace  pity?  Had  Mademoiselle 
Godeau  feared  to  see  him  die — him,  Croisilles — or  merely  to 
be  the  cause  of  the  death  of  a  man,  no  matter  what  man.^ 
Although  withered  and  almost  leafless,  the  bouquet  still  re- 
tained so  exquisite  an  odor  and  so  brave  a  look,  that  in 
breathing  it  and  looking  at  it,  Croisilles  could  not  help  hop- 
ing. It  wa!^  a  thin  garland  of  roses  round  a  bunch  of  violets. 
What  mysterious  depths  of  sentiment  an  Oriental  might  have 
read  in  these  flowers,  by  interpreting  their  language !  But 
after  all,  he  need  not  be  an  Oriental  in  this  case.  The  flowers 
which  fall  from  the  breast  of  a  pretty  woman,  in  Europe,  as 
in  the  East,  are  never  mute;  were  they  but  to  tell  what  they 
have  seen  while  reposing  in  that  lovely  bosom,  it  would  be 
enough  for  a  lover,  and  this,  in  fact,  they  do.    Perfumes  have 


176  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

more  than  one  resemblance  to  love^  and  there  are  even  people 
who  think  love  to  be  but  a  sort  of  perfume;  it  is  true  the 
flowers  which  exhale  it  are  the  most  beautiful  in  creation. 

While  Croisilles  mused  thus^  paying  very  little  attention 
to  the  tragedy  that  was  being  acted  at  the  time^  Mademoiselle 
Godeau  herself  appeared  in  a  box  opposite. 

The  idea  did  not  occur  to  the  young  man  that^  if  she  should 
notice  him^  she  might  think  it  very  strange  to  find  the  would- 
be  suicide  there  after  what  had  transpired  in  the  morning. 
He,  on  the  contrary,  bent  all  his  efforts  towards  getting 
nearer  to  her ;  but  he  could  not  succeed.  A  fifth-rate  actress 
from  Paris  had  come  to  play  Merope/  and  the  crowd  was  so 
dense  that  one  could  not  move.  For  lack  of  anything  better, 
Croisilles  had  to  content  himself  with  fixing  his  gaze  upon  his 
lady-love,  not  lifting  his  eyes  from  her  for  a  moment.  He 
noticed  that  she  seemed  pre-occupied  and  moody,  and  that 
she  spoke  to  every  one  with  a  sort  of  repugnance.  Her  box 
was  surrounded,  as  may  be  imagined,  by  all  the  fops  of  the 
neighborhood,  each  of  whom  passed  several  times  before  her 
in  the  gallery,  totally  unable  to  enter  the  box,  of  which  her 
father  filled  more  than  three-fourths.  Croisilles  noticed  fur- 
ther that  she  was  not  using  her  opera-glasses,  nor  was  she 
listening  to  the  play.  Her  elbows  resting  on  the  balustrade, 
her  chin  in  her  hand,  with  her  far-away  look,  she  seemed,  in 
all  her  sumptuous  apparel,  like  some  statue  of  Venus  dis- 
guised en  marquise.  The  display  of  her  dress  and  her  hair, 
her  rouge,  beneath  which  one  could  guess  her  paleness,  all 
the  splendor  of  her  toilet,  did  but  the  more  distinctly  bring 
out  the  immobility  of  her  countenance.  Never  had  Croisilles 
seen  her  so  beautiful.  Having  found  means,  between  the  acts, 
to  escape  from  the  crush,  he  hurried  off  to  look  at  her  from 
the  passage  leading  to  her  box,  and,  strange  to  say,  scarcely 
had  he  reached  it,  when  Mademoiselle  Godeau,  who  had  not 

5.  A  play  by  Voltaire. 


CROISILLES  171 

stirred  for  the  last  hour^  turned  round.  She  started  slightly 
as  she  noticed  him  and  only  cast  a  glance  at  him;  then  she 
resumed  her  former  attitude.  Whether  that  glance  expressed 
surprise^  anxiety,  pleasure,  or  love ;  whether  it  meant  **What, 
not  dead  \"  or  **God  be  praised !  There  you  are,  living  !*' — I 
do  not  pretend  to  explain.  Be  that  as  it  may ;  at  that  glance, 
Croisilles  inwardly  swore  to  himself  to  die  or  gain  her  love. 

IV 

Of  all  the  obstacles  which  hinder  the  smooth  course  of 
love,  the  greatest  is,  without  doubt,  what  is  called  false 
shame,  which  is  indeed  a  very  potent  obstacle. 

Croisilles  was  not  troubled  with  this  unhappy  failing, 
which  both  pride  and  timidity  combine  to  produce;  he  was 
not  one  of  those  who,  for  whole  months,  hover  round  the 
woman  they  love,  like  a  cat  round  a  caged  bird.  As  soon  as 
he  had  given  up  the  idea  of  drowning  himself,  he  thought 
only  of  letting  his  dear  Julie  know  that  he  lived  solely  for 
her.  But  how  could  he  tell  her  so  }  Should  he  present  him- 
self a  second  time  at  the  mansion  of  the  fermier-general,  it 
was  but  too  certain  that  M.  Godeau  would  have  him  ejected. 
Julie,  when  she  happened  to  take  a  walk,  never  went  without 
her  maid ;  it  was  therefore  useless  to  undertake  to  follow  her. 
To  pass  the  nights  under  the  windows  of  one's  beloved  is  a 
folly  dear  to  lovers,  but,  in  the  present  case,  it  would  cer- 
tainly prove  vain.  I  said  before  that  Croisilles  was  very 
religious ;  it  therefore  never  entered  his  mind  to  seek  to  meet 
his  lady-love  at  church.  As  the  best  way,  though  the  most 
dangerous,  is  to  write  to  people  when  one  cannot  speak  to 
them  in  person,  he  decided  on  the  very  next  day  to  write  to 
the  young  lady. 

His  letter  possessed,  naturally,  neither  order  nor  reason. 
It  read  somewhat  as  follows: 


178  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"Mademoiselle, — Tell  me  exactly,  I  beg  of  you,  what  for- 
tune one  must  possess  to  be  able  to  pretend  to  your  hand.  I 
am  asking  you  a  strange  question ;  but  I  love  you  so  desper- 
ately, that  it  is  impossible  for  me  not  to  ask  it,  and  you  are 
the  only  person  in  the  world  to  whom  I  can  address  it.  It 
seemed  to  me,  last  evening,  that  you  looked  at  me  at  the  play. 
I  had  wished  to  die;  would  to  God  I  were  indeed  dead,  if  I 
am  mistaken,  and  if  that  look  was  not  meant  for  me.  Tell 
me  if  Fate  can  be  so  cruel  as  to  let  a  man  deceive  himself  in 
a  manner  at  once  so  sad  and  so  sweet.  I  believe  that  you 
commanded  me  to  live.  You  are  rich,  beautiful.  I  know  it. 
Your  father  is  arrogant  and  miserly,  and  you  have  a  right 
to  be  proud;  but  I  love  you,  and  the  rest  is  a  dream.  Fix 
your  charming  eyes  on  me ;  think  of  what  love  can  do,  when  I 
who  suffer  so  cruelly,  who  must  stand  in  fear  of  everything, 
feel,  nevertheless,  an  inexpressible  joy  in  writing  you  this 
mad  letter,  which  will  perhaps  bring  down  your  anger  upon 
me.  But  think  also,  mademoiselle,  that  you  are  a  little  to 
blame  for  this,  my  folly.  Why  did  you  drop  that  bouquet? 
Put  yourself  for  an  instant,  if  possible,  in  my  place;  I  dare 
think  that  you  love  me,  and  I  dare  ask  you  to  tell  me  so. 
Forgive  me,  I  beseech  you.  I  would  give  my  life's  blood  to 
be  sure  of  not  offending  you,  and  to  see  you  listening  to  my 
love  with  that  angel  smile  which  belongs  only  to  you. 

"Whatever  you  may  do,  your  image  remains  mine ;  you  can 
remove  it  only  by  tearing  out  my  heart.  As  long  as  your  look 
lives  in  my  remembrance,  as  long  as  the  bouquet  keeps  a 
trace  of  its  perfume,  as  long  as  a  word  will  tell  of  love,  I  will 
cherish  hope." 

Having  sealed  his  letter,  Croisilles  went  out  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  street  opposite  the  Godeau  mansion,  waiting 
for  a  servant  to  come  out.  Chance,  which  always  serves  mys- 
terious loves,  when  it  can  do'  so  without  compromising  itself. 


CROISILLES  179 

willed  it  that  Mademoiselle  Julie's  maid  should  have  ar- 
ranged to  purchase  a  cap  on  that  day.  She  was  going  to  the 
milliner's  when  Croisilles  accosted  her^  slipped  a  louis  into 
her  hand,  and  asked  her  to  take  charge  of  his  letter.  The 
bargain  was  soon  struck ;  the  servant  took  the  money  to  pay 
for  her  cap  and  promised  to  do  the  errand  out  of  gratitude. 
Croisilles,  full  of  joy,  went  home  and  sat  at  his  door  awaiting 
an  answer. 

Before  speaking  of  this  answer,  a  word  must  be  said  about 
Mademoiselle  Godeau.  She  was  not  quite  free  from  the  van- 
ity of  her  father,  but  her  good  nature  was  ever  uppermost. 
She  was,  in  the  full  meaning  of  the  term,  a  spoilt  child.  She 
habitually  spoke  very  little,  and  never  was  she  seen  with  a 
needle  in  her  hand ;  she  spent  her  days  at  her  toilet,  and  her 
evenings  on  the  sofa,  not  seeming  to  hear  the  conversation 
going  on  around  her.  As  regards  her  dress,  she  was  pro- 
digiously coquettish,  and  her  own  face  was  surely  what  she 
thought  most  of  on  earth.  A  wrinkle  in  her  collarette,  an 
ink-spot  on  her  finger,  would  have  distressed  her ;  and,  when 
her  dress  pleased  her,  nothing  can  describe  the  last  look 
which  she  cast  at  her  mirror  before  leaving  the  room.  She 
showed  neither  taste  nor  aversion  for  the  pleasures  in  which 
young  ladies  usually  delight.  She  went  to  balls  willingly 
enough,  and  renounced  going  to  them  without  a  show  of 
temper,  sometimes  without  motive.  The  play  wearied  her,  and 
she  was  in  the  constant  habit  of  falling  asleep  there.  When 
her  father,  who  worshiped  her,  proposed  to  make  her  some 
present  of  her  own  choice,  she  took  an  hour  to  decide,  not 
being  able  to  think  of  anything  she  cared  for.  When  W, 
Godeau  gave  a  reception  or  a  dinner,  it  often  happened  that 
Julie  would  not  appear  in  the  drawing-room,  and  at  such 
times  she  passed  the  evening  alone  in  her  own  room,  in  full 
dress,  walking  up  and  down,  her  fan  in  her  hand.  If  a  com- 
pliment was  addressed  to  her,  she  turned  away  her  head, 


180  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

and  if  any  one  attempted  to  pay  court  to  her,  she  responded 
only  by  a  look  at  once  so  dazzling  and  so  serious  as  to  dis- 
concert even  the  boldest.  Never  had  a  sally  made  her  laugh ; 
never  had  an  air  in  an  opera^  a  flight  of  tragedy,  moved  her; 
indeed,  never  had  her  heart  given  a  sign  of  life;  and,  on 
seeing  her  pass  in  all  the  splendor  of  her  nonchalant  loveli- 
ness one  might  have  taken  her  for  a  beautiful  somnambulist, 
walking  through  the  world  as  in  a  trance. 

So  much  indifference  and  coquetry  did  not  seem  easy  to 
understand.  Some  said  she  loved  nothing,  others  that  she 
loved  nothing  but  herself.  A  single  word,  however,  suffices 
to  explain  her  character, — she  was  waiting.  From  the  age  of 
fourteen  she  had  heard  it  ceaselessly  repeated  that  nothing 
was  so  charming  as  she.  She  was  convinced  of  this,  and  that 
was  why  she  paid  so  much  attention  to  dress.  In  failing  to 
do  honor  to  her  own  person,  she  would  have  thought  herself 
guilty  of  sacrilege.  She  walked,  in  her  beauty,  so  to  speak, 
like  a  child  in  its  holiday  dress;  but  she  was  very  far  from 
thinking  that  her  beauty  was  to  remain  useless.  Beneath 
her  apparent  unconcern  she  had  a  will,  secret,  inflexible,  and 
the  more  potent  the  better  it  was  concealed.  The  coquetry 
of  ordinary  women,  which  spends  itself  in  ogling,  in  simper- 
ing, and  in  smiling,  seemed  to  her  a  childish,  vain,  almost 
contemptible  way  of  fighting  with  shadows.  She  felt  herself 
in  possession  of  a  treasure,  and  she  disdained  to  stake  it  piece 
by  piece;  she  needed  an  adversary  worthy  of  herself;  but,  too 
accustomed  to  see  her  wishes  anticipated,  she  did  not  seek 
that  adversary;  it  may  even  be  said  that  she  felt  astonished 
at  his  failing  to  present  himself.  For  the  four  or  five  years 
that  she  had  been  out  in  society  and  had  conscientiously  dis- 
played her  flowers,  her  furbelows,  and  her  beautiful  should- 
ers, it  seemed  to  her  inconceivable  that  she  had  not  yet  in- 
spired some  great  passion.  Had  she  said  what  was  really 
behind  her  thoughts,  she  certainly  would  have  replied  to  her 


CROISILLES  181 

many  flatterers:  "Well!  if  it  is  true  that  I  am  so  beautiful, 
why  do  you  not  blow  your  brains  out  for  me?"  An  answer 
which  many  other  young  girls  might  make,  and  which  more 
than  one  who  says  nothing  hides  away  in  a  corner  of  her 
heart,  not  far  perhaps  from  the  tip  of  her  tongue. 

What  is  there,  indeed,  in  the  world,  more  tantalizing  for  a 
woman  than  to  be  young,  rich,  beautiful,  to  look  at  herself  in 
her  mirror  and  see  herself  charmingly  dressed,  worthy  in 
every  way  to  please,  fully  disposed  to  allow  herself  to  be 
loved,  and  to  have  to  say  to  herself:  "I  am  admired,  I  am 
praised,  all  the  world  thinks  me  charming,  but  nobody  loves 
me.  My  gown  is  by  the  best  maker,  my  laces  are  superb,  my 
coiffure  is  irreproachable,  my  face  the  most  beautiful  on 
earth,  my  figure  slender,  my  foot  prettily  turned,  and  all  this 
helps  me  to  nothing  but  to  go  and  yawn  in  the  corner  of  some 
drawing-room !  If  a  young  man  speaks  to  me  he  treats  me 
as  a  child ;  if  I  am  asked  in  marriage,  it  is  for  my  dowry ;  if 
somebody  presses  my  hand  in  a  dance,  it  is  sure  to  be  some 
provincial  fop;  as  soon  as  I  appear  anywhere,  I  excite  a 
murmur  of  admiration ;  but  nobody  speaks  low,  in  my  ear,  a 
word  that  makes  my  heart  beat.  I  hear  impertinent  men 
praising  me  in  loud  tones,  a  couple  of  feet  away,  and  never 
a  look  of  humbly  sincere  adoration  meets  mine.  Still  I  have 
an  ardent  soul  full  of  life,  and  I  am  not,  by  any  means,  only 
a  pretty  doll  to  be  shown  about,  to  be  made  to  dance  at  a  ball, 
to  be  dressed  by  a  maid  in  the  morning  and  undressed  at 
night — beginning  the  whole  thing  over  again  the  next  day.'* 

That  is  what  Mademoiselle  Godeau  had  many  times  said 
to  herself ;  and  there  were  hours  when  that  thought  inspired 
her  with  so  gloomy  a  feeling  that  she  remained  mute  and 
almost  motionless  for  a  whole  day.  When  Croisilles  wrote 
her,  she  was  in  just  such  a  fit  of  ill-humor.  She  had  just 
been  taking  her  chocolate  and  was  deep  in  meditation, 
stretched  upon  a  lounge,  when  her  maid  entered  and  handed 


282  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

her  the  letter  with  a  mysterious  air.  She  looked  at  the 
address,  and  not  recognizing  the  handwriting,  fell  again  to 
musing.  The  maid  then  saw  herself  forced  to  explain  what 
it  was,  which  she  did  with  a  rather  disconcerted  air,  not 
being  at  all  sure  how  the  young  lady  would  take  the  matter. 
Mademoiselle  Godeau  listened  without  moving,  then  opened 
the  letter,  and  cast  only  a  glance  at  it ;  she  at  once  asked  for 
a  sheet  of  paper,  and  nonchalantly  wrote  these  few  words : 

**No,  sir,  I  assure  you  I  am  not  proud.  If  you  had  only  a 
hundred  thousand  crowns,  I  Would  willingly  marry  you.'' 

Such  was  the  reply  which  the  maid  at  once  took  to  Crois- 
illes,  who  gave  her  another  louis  for  her  trouble. 


A  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  CROWNS  are  Dot  found  "in  a  don- 
key's hoof-print,"  and  if  Croisilles  had  been  suspicious  he 
might  have  thought  in  reading  Mademoiselle  Godeau's  letter 
that  she  was  either  crazy  or  laughing  at  him.  He  thought 
neither,  for  he  only  saw  in  it  that  his  darling  Julie  loved 
him,  and  that  he  must  have  a  hundred  thousand  crowns,  and 
he  dreamed  from  that  moment  of  nothing  but  trying  to  secure 
them. 

He  possessed  two  hundred  louis  in  cash,  plus  a  house 
which,  as  I  have  said,  might  be  worth  about  thirty  thousand 
francs.  What  was  to  be  done.^*  How  was  he  to  go  about 
transfiguring  these  thirty-four  thousand  francs,  at  a  jump, 
into  three  hundred  thousand.  The  first  idea  which  came 
into  the  mind  of  the  young  man  was  to  find  some  way  of 
staking  his  whole  fortune  on  the  toss-up  of  a  coin,  but  for 
that  he  must  sell  the  house.  Croisilles  therefore  began  by 
putting  a  notice  upon  the  door,  stating  that  his  house  was  for 
sale ;  then,  while  dreaming  what  he  would  do  with  the  money 
that  he  would  get  for  it,  he  awaited  a  purchaser. 

A  week  went  by,  then  another;  not  a  single  purchaser 


CROISILLES  183 

applied.  More  and  more  distressed,  Croisilles  spent  these 
days  with  Jean,  and  despair  was  taking  possession  of  him 
once  more,  when  a  Jewish  broker  rang  at  the  door. 

**This  house  is  for  sale,  sir,  is  it  not.^  Are  you  the  owner 
of  it.?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  how  much  is  it  worth  ?" 

"Thirty  thousand  francs,  I  believe;  at  least  I  have  heard 
my  father  say  so." 

The  Jew  visited  all  the  rooms,  went  upstairs  and  down 
into  the  cellar,  knocking  on  the  walls,  counting  the  steps  of 
the  staircase,  turning  the  doors  on  their  hinges  and  the  keys 
in  their  locks,  opening  and  closing  the  windows ;  then,  at  last, 
after  having  thoroughly  examined  everything,  without  saying 
a  word  and  without  making  the  slightest  proposal,  he  bowed 
to  Croisilles  and  retired. 

Croisilles,  who  for  a  whole  hour  had  followed  him  with  a 
palpitating  heart,  as  may  be  imagined,  was  not  a  little  disap- 
pointed at  this  silent  retreat.  He  thought  that  perhaps  the 
Jew  wished  to  give  himself  time  to  reflect  and  that  he  would 
return  presently.  He  waited  a  week  for  him,  not  daring  to 
go  out  for  fear  of  missing  his  visit,  and  looking  out  of  the 
windows  from  morning  till  night.  But  it  was  in  vain;  the 
Jew  did  not'  reappear.  Jean,  true  to  his  unpleasant  role  of 
adviser,  brought  moral  pressure  to  bear  to  dissuade  his  mas- 
ter from  selling  his  house  in  so  hasty  a  manner  and  for  so  ex- 
travagant a  purpose.  Dying  of  impatience,  ennui,  and  love, 
Croisilles  one  morning  took  his  two  hundred  louis  and  went 
out,  determined  to  tempt  fortune  with  this  sum,  since  he 
could  not  have  more. 

The  gaming-houses  at  that  time  were  not  public,  and  that 
refinement  of  civilization  which  enables  the  first  comer  to 
ruin  himself  at  all  hours,  as  soon  as  the  wish  enters  his  mind, 
had  not  yet  been  invented. 


134  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

Scarcely  was  Croisilles  in  the  street  before  he  stopped^  not 
knowing  where  to  go  to  stake  his  money.  He  looked  at  the 
houses  of  the  neighborhood^  and  eyed  them^  one  after  the 
other,  striving  to  discover  suspicious  appearances  that 
might  point  out  to  him  the  object  of  his  search.  A  good- 
looking  young  man,  splendidly  dressed,  happened  to  pass. 
Judging  from  his  mien,  he  was  certainly  a  young  man  of 
gentle  blood  and  ample  leisure,  so  Croisilles  politely  ac- 
costed him. 

"Sir,''  he  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  liberty  I  take. 
I  have  two  hundred  louis  in  my  pocket  and  I  am  dying  either 
to  lose  them  or  win  more.  Could  you  point  out  to  me  some 
respectable  place  where  such  things  are  done.^" 

At  this  rather  strange  speech  the  young  man  burst  out 
laughing. 

"Upon  my  word,  sir!"  answered  he,  "if  you  are  seeking 
any  such  wicked  place  you  have  but  to  follow  me,  for  that  is 
just  where  I  am  going." 

Croisilles  followed  him,  and  a  few  steps  farther  they  both 
entered  a  house  of  very  attractive  appearance,  where  they 
were  received  hospitably  by  an  old  gentleman  of  the  highest 
breeding.  Several  young  men  were  already  seated  round  a 
green  cloth.  Croisilles  modestly  took  a  place  there,  and  in 
less  than  an  hour  his  two  hundred  louis  were  gone. 

He  came  out  as  sad  as  a  lover  can  be  who  thinks  himself 
beloved.  He  had  not  enough  to  dine  with,  but  that  did  not 
cause  him  any  anxiety. 

"What  can  I  do  now,"  he  asked  himself,  "to  get  money  .^ 
To  whom  shall  I  address  myself  in  this  town.?  Who  will 
lend  me  even  a  hundred  louis  on  this  house  that  I  can  not 
selir 

While  he  was  in  this  quandary,  he  met  his  Jewish  broker. 
He  did  not  hesitate  to  address  him,  and,  featherhead  as  he 
was,  did  not  fail  to  tell  him  the  plight  he  was  in. 


CROISILLES  185 

The  Jew  did  not  much  want  to  buy  the  house;  he  had 
come  to  see  it  only  through  curiosity,  or,  to  speak  more  ex- 
actly, for  the  satisfaction  of  his  own  conscience,  as  a  passing 
dog  goes  into  a  kitchen,  the  door  of  which  stands  open,  to  see 
if  there  is  nothing  to  steal.  But  when  he  saw  Croisilles  so 
despondent,  so  sad,  so  bereft  of  all  resources,  he  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  put  himself  to  some  inconvenience, 
even,  in  order  to  pay  for  the  house.  He  therefore  offered 
him  about  one-fourth  of  its  value.  Croisilles  fell  upon  his 
neck,  called  him  his  friend  and  savior,  blindly  signed  a  bar- 
gain that  would  have  made  one's  hair  stand  on  end,  and,  on 
the  very  next  day,  the  possessor  of  four  hundred  new  louis, 
he  once  more  turned  his  steps  toward  the  gambling-house 
where  he  had  been  so  politely  and  speedily  ruined  the  night 
before. 

On  his  way,  he  passed  by  the  wharf.  A  vessel  was  about 
leaving;  the  wind  was  gentle,  the  ocean  tranquil.  On  all 
sides,  merchants,  sailors,  officers  in  uniform  were  coming  and 
going.  Porters  were  carrying  enormous  bales  of  merchan- 
dise. Passengers  and  their  friends  were  exchanging  fare- 
wells, small  boats  were  rowing  about  in  all  directions;  on 
every  face  could  be  read  fear,  impatience,  or  hope;  and, 
amidst  all  the  agitation  which  surrounded  it,  the  majestic 
vessel  swayed  gently  to  and  fro  under  the  wind  that  swelled 
•  her  proud  sails. 

"What  a  grand  thing  it  is,''  thought  Croisilles,  "to  risk  all 
one  possesses  and  go  beyond  the  sea,  in  perilous  search  of 
fortune !  How  it  fills  me  with  emotion  to  look  at  this  vessel 
setting  out  on  her  voyage,  loaded  with  so  much  wealth,  with 
the  welfare  of  so  many  families !  What  joy  to  see  her  come 
back  again,  bringing  twice  as  much  as  was  intrusted  to  her, 
returning  so  much  prouder  and  richer  than  she  went  away ! 
Why  am  I  not  one  of  those  merchants  .^^  Why  could  I  not 
stake  my  four  hundred  louis  in  this  way  ?    This  immense  sea ! 


185  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

What  a  green  cloth,  on  which  to  boldly  tempt  fortune !  Why- 
should  I  not  myself  buy  a  few  bales  of  cloth  or  silk?  What 
is  to  prevent  my  doing  so,  since  I  have  gold?  Why  should 
this  captain  refuse  to  take  charge  of  my  merchandise  ?  And 
who  knows  ?  Instead  of  going  and  throwing  away  this — my 
little  all — in  a  gambling-house,  I  might  double  it,  I  might 
triple  it,  perhaps,  by  honest  industry.  If  Julie  truly  loves 
me,  she  will  wait  a  few  years,  she  will  remain  true  to  me 
until  I  am  able  to  marry  her.  Commerce  sometimes  yields 
greater  profits  than  one  thinks ;  examples  are  not  wanting  in 
this  world  of  wealth  gained  with  astonishing  rapidity  in  this 
way  on  the  changing  waves — why  should  Providence  not 
bless  an  endeavor  made  for  a  purpose  so  laudable,  so  worthy 
of  His  assistance?  Among  these  merchants  who  have  accu- 
mulated so  much  and  who  send  their  vessels  to  the  ends  of 
the  world,  more  than  one  has  begun  with  a  smaller  sum  than 
I  have  now.  They  have  prospered  with  the  help  of  God; 
why  should  not  I  prosper  in  my  turn?  It  seems  to  me  as 
though  a  good  wind  were  filling  these  sails,  and  this  vessel 
inspires  confidence.  Come!  the  die  is  cast;  I  will  speak  to 
the  captain,  who  seems  to  be  a  good  fellow ;  I  will  then  write 
to  Julie,  and  set  out  to  become  a  clever  and  successful 
trader." 

The  greatest  danger  incurred  by  those  who  are  habitually 
but  half  crazy,  is  that  of  becoming,  at  times,  altogether  so. 
The  poor  fellow,  without  further  deliberation,  put  his  whim 
into  execution.  To  find  goods  to  buy,  when  one  has  money 
and  knows  nothing  about  the  goods,  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world.  The  captain,  to  oblige  Croisilles,  took  him  to  one  of 
his  friends,  a  manufacturer,  who  sold  him  as  much  cloth  and 
silk  as  he  could  pay  for.  The  whole  of  it,  loaded  upon  a  cart, 
was  promptly  taken  on  board.  Croisilles,  delighted  and  full 
of  hope,  had  himself  written  in  large  letters  his  name  upon 
the  bales.    He  watched  them  being  put  on  board  with  inex- 


CROISILLES  187 

pressible  joy;  the  hour  of  departure  soon  came,  and  the 
vessel  weighed  anchor. 

VI 

I  NEED  not  say  that  in  this  transaction,  Croisilles  had  kept 
no  money  in  hand.  His  house  was  sold ;  and  there  remained 
to  him,  for  his  sole  fortune,  the  clothes  he  had  on  his  back ; — 
no  home,  and  not  a  sou.  With  the  best  will  possible,  Jean 
could  not  suppose  that  his  master  was  reduced  to  such  an 
extremity;  Croisilles  was  not  too  proud,  but  too  thoughtless 
to  tell  him  of  it.  So  he  determined  to  sleep  under  the  starry 
vault,  and  as  for  his  meals,  he  made  the  following  calcula- 
tion: he  presumed  that  the  vessel  which  bore  his  fortune 
would  be  six  months  before  coming  back  to  Havre ;  Croisilles, 
therefore,  not  without  regret,  sold  a  gold  watch  his  father 
had  given  him,  and  which  he  had  fortunately  kept;  he  got 
thirty-six  livres  ^  for  it.  That  was  sufficient  to  live  on  for 
about  six  months,  at  the  rate  of  four  sous  a  day.  He  did 
not  doubt  that  it  would  be  enough,  and,  reassured  for  the 
present,  he  wrote  to  Mademoiselle  Godeau  to  inform  her  of 
what  he  had  done.  He  was  very  careful  in  his  letter  not  to 
speak  of  his  distress ;  he  announced  to  her,  on  the  contrary, 
that  he  had  undertaken  a  magnificent  commercial  enterprise, 
of  the  speedy  and  fortunate  issue  of  which  there  could  be  no 
doubt;  he  explained  to  her  that  La  Fleurette,  a  merchant- 
vessel  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  tons,  was  carrying  to  the 
Baltic  his  cloths  and  his  silks,  and  implored  her  to  remain 
faithful  to  him  for  a  year,  reserving  to  himself  the  right  of 
asking,  later  on,  for  a  further  delay,  while,  for  his  part,  he 
swore  eternal  love  to  her. 

When  Mademoiselle  Godeau  received  this  letter,  she  was 
sitting  before  the  fire,  and  had  in  her  hand,  using  it  as  a 
screen,  one  of  those  bulletins  which  are  printed  in  seaports, 

6.  The  livre  was  worth  twenty  cents. 


188 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


announcing  the  arrival  and  departure  of  vessels^  and  which 
also  report  disasters  at  sea.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her,  as 
one  can  well  imagine,  to  take  an  interest  in  this  sort  of 
thing;  she  had  in  fact  never  glanced  at  any  of  these  sheets. 
The  perusal  of  Croisilles'  letter  prompted  her  to  read  the 
bulletin  she  had  been  holding  in  her  hand ;  the  first  word  that 
caught  her  eye  was  no  other  than  the  name  of  La  Fleurette. 
— The  vessel  had  been  wrecked  on  the  coast  of  France,  on 
the  very  night  following  its  departure.  The  crew  had  barely 
escaped,  but  all  the  cargo  was  lost. 

Mademoiselle  Godeau,  at  this  news,  no  longer  remembered 
that  Croisilles  had  made  to  her  an  avowal  of  his  poverty ;  she 
was  as  heartbroken  as  though  a  million  had  been  at  stake. 
In  an  instant,  the  horrors  of  the  tempest,  the  fury  of  the 
winds,  the  cries  of  the  drowning,  the  ruin  of  the  man  who 
loved  her,  presented  themselves  to  her  mind  like  a  scene  in  a 
romance.  The  bulletin  and  the  letter  fell  from  her  hands. 
She  rose  in  great  agitation,  and,  with  heaving  breast  and  eyes 
brimming  with  tears,  paced  up  and  down,  determined  to  act, 
and  asking  herself  how  she  should  act. 

There  is  one  thing  that  must  be  said  in  justice  to  love;  it 
is  that  the  stronger,  the  clearer,  the  simpler  the  considera- 
tions opposed  to  it,  in  a  word,  the  less  common  sense  there  is 
in  the  matter,  the  wilder  does  the  passion  become  and  the 
more  does  the  lover  love.  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
things  under  heaven,  this  irrationality  of  the  heart.  We 
should  not  be  worth  much  without  it.  After  having  walked 
about  the  room  (without  forgetting  either  her  dear  fan  or  the 
passing  glance  at  the  mirror),  Julie  allowed  herself  to  sink 
once  more  upon  her  lounge.  Whoever  had  seen  her  at  this 
moment  would  have  looked  upon  a  lovely  sight;  her  eyes 
sparkled,  her  cheeks  were  on  fire;  she  sighed  deeply,  and 
murmured  in  a  delicious  transport  of  joy  and  pain: 

"Poor  fellow !    He  has  ruined  himself  for  me  V* 


CROISILLES  189 

Independently  of  the  fortune  which  she  could  expect  from 
her  father^  Mademoiselle  Godeau  had  in  her  own  right  the 
property  her  mother  had  left  her.  She  had  never  thought  of 
it.  At  this  moment,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  remem- 
bered that  she  could  dispose  of  five  hundred  thousand  francs. 
This  thought  brought  a  smile  to  her  lips ;  a  proj  ect,  strange, 
bold,  wholly  feminine,  almost  as  mad  as  Croisilles  himself, 
entered  her  head; — she  weighed  the  idea  in  her  mind  for 
some  time,  then  decided  to  act  upon  it  at  once. 

She  began  by  inquiring  whether  Croisilles  had  any  rela- 
tives or  friends;  the  maid  was  sent  out  in  all  directions  to 
find  out.  Having  made  minute  inquiries  in  all  quarters,  she 
discovered,  on  the  fourth  floor  of  an  old  rickety  house,  a  half- 
crippled  aunt,  who  never  stirred  from  her  arm-chair,  and  had 
not  been  out  for  four  or  five  years.  This  poor  woman,  very 
old,  seemed  to  have  been  left  in  the  world  expressly  as  a 
specimen  of  hungry  misery.  Blind,  gouty,  almost  deaf,  she 
lived  alone  in  a  garret;  but  a  gayety,  stronger  than  misfor- 
tune and  illness,  sustained  her  at  eighty  years  of  age,  and 
made  her  still  love  life.  Her  neighbors  never  passed  her 
door  without  going  in  to  see  her,  and  the  antiquated  tunes 
she  hummed  enlivened  all  the  girls  of  the  neighborhood.  She 
possessed  a  little  annuity  which  sufficed  to  maintain  her;  as 
long  as  day  lasted,  she  knitted.  She  did  not  know  what  had 
happened  since  the  death  of  Louis  XIV. 

It  was  to  this  worthy  person  that  Julie  had  herself  pri- 
vately conducted.  She  donned  for  the  occasion  all  her 
finery;  feathers,  laces,  ribbons,  diamonds,  nothing  was 
spared.  She  wanted  to  be  fascinating ;  •but  the  real  secret  of 
her  beauty,  in  this  case,  was  the  whim  that  was  carrying 
her  away.  She  went  up  the  steep,  dark  staircase  which 
led  to  the  good  lady*s  chamber,  and,  after  the  most  graceful 
bow,  spoke  somewhat  as  follows : 

"You  have,   madame,  a  nephew,  called   Croisilles,  who 


190  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

loves  me  and  has  asked  for  my  hand;  I  love  him^  too^  and 
wish  to  marry  him;  but  my  father.  Monsieur  Godeau,  fer- 
mier-general  of  this  town,  refuses  his  consent,  because  your 
nephew  is  not  rich.  I  would  not,  for  the  world,  give  occasion 
to  scandal,  nor  cause  trouble  to  anybody ;  I  would  therefore 
never  think  of  disposing  of  myself  without  the  consent  of 
my  family.  I  come  to  ask  you  a  favor,  which  I  beseech  you 
to  grant  me.  You  must  come  yourself  and  propose  this  mar- 
riage to  my  father.  I  have,  thank  God,  a  little  fortune  which 
is  quite  at  your  disposal ;  you  may  take  possession,  whenever 
you  see  fit,  of  ^ve  hundred  thousand  francs  at  my  notary's. 
Yoir  will  say  that  this  sum  belongs  to  your  nephew,  which  in 
fact  it  does.  It  is  not  a  present  that  I  am  making  him,  it  is  a 
debt  which  I  am  paying,  for  I  am  the  cause  of  the  ruin  of 
Croisilles,  and  it  is  but  just  that- 1  should  repair  it.  My 
father  will  not  easily  give  in;  you  will  be  obliged  to  insist 
and  you  must  have  a  little  courage ;  I,  for  my  part,  will  not 
fail.  As  nobody  on  earth  excepting  myself  has  any  right  to 
the  sum  of  which  I  am  speaking  to  you,  nobody  will  ever 
know  in  what  way  this  amount  will  have  passed  into  your 
hands.  You  are  not  very  rich  yourself,  I  know,  and  you  may 
fear  that  people  will  be  astonished  to  see  you  thus  endowing 
your  nephew;  but  remember  that  my  father  does  not  know 
you,  that  you  show  yourself  very  little  in  town,  and  that, 
consequently,  it  will  be  easy  for  you  to  pretend  that  you  have 
just  arrived  from  some  journey.  This  step  will  doubtless  be 
some  exertion  to  you ;  you  will  have  to  leave  your  arm-chair 
and  take  a  little  trouble;  but  you  will  make  two  people 
happy,  madame,  and  if  you  have  ever  known  love,  I  hope  you 
will  not  refuse  me." 

The  old  lady,  during  this  discourse,  had  been  in  turn 
surprised,  anxious,  touched,  and  delighted.  The  last  words 
persuaded  her. 

"Yes,  my  child,'*  she  repeated  several  times,  "I  know  what 
it  is, — I  know  what  it  is.'* 


CROISILLES  191 

As  she  said  this  she  made  an  effort  to  rise ;  her  feeble  limbs 
could  barely  support  her ;  Julie  quickly  advanced  and  put  out 
her  hand  to  help  her;  by  an  almost  involuntary  movement 
they  found  themselves,  in  an  instant,  in  each  other's  arms. 
A  treaty  was  at  once  concluded;  a  warm  kiss  sealed  it  in 
advance,  and  the  necessary  and  confidential  consultation 
followed  without  further  trouble. 

All  the  explanations  having  been  made,  the  good  lady 
drew  from  her  wardrobe  a  venerable  gown  of  taffeta,  which 
had  been  her  wedding-dress.  This  antique  piece  of  property 
was  not  less  than  fifty  years  old ;  but  not  a  spot,  not  a  grain 
of  dust  had  disfigured  it;  Julie  was  in  ecstasies  over  it.  A 
coach  was  sent  for,  the  handsomest  in  the  town.  The  good 
lady  prepared  the  speech  she  was  going  to  make  to  Monsieur 
Godeau;  Julie  tried  to  teach  her  how  she  was  to  touch  the 
heart  of  her  father,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  confess  that  love 
of  rank  was  his  vulnerable  point. 

"If  you  could  imagine,'*  said  she,  "a  means  of  flattering 
this  weakness,  yoh  will  have  won  our  cause." 

The  good  lady  pondered  deeply,  finished  her  toilet  without 
another  word,  clasped  the  hands  of  her  future  niece,  and  en- 
tered the  carriage.  She  soon  arrived  at  the  Godeau  mansion ; 
there,  she  braced  herself  up  so  gallantly  for  her  entrance 
that  she  seemed  ten  years  younger.  She  maj  estically  crossed 
the  drawing-room  where  Julie's  bouquet  had  fallen,  and  when 
the  door  of  the  boudoir  opened,  said  in  a  firm  voice  to  the 
lackey  who  preceded  her : 

"Announce  the  dowager  Baroness  de  Croisilles." 

These  words  settled  the  happiness  of  the  two  lovers. 
Monsieur  Godeau  was  bewildered  by  them.  Although  five 
hundred  thousand  francs  seemed  little  to  him,  he  consented 
to  everything,  in  order  to  make  his  daughter  a  baroness,  and 
such  she  became; — who  would  dare  contest  her  title .^^  For 
my  part,  I  think  she  had  thoroughly  earned  it. 


MAUPASSANT 

(1850-1893) 

Guy  de  Maupassant  was  born  in  Normandy  (northern 
France)  in  1850.  He  completed  his  education  at  Rouen  and 
then  went  to  Paris  where  he  was  for  a  time  a  clerk  in  the 
Ministry  of  Marine.  While  yet  a  boy  it  was  his  good  for- 
tune to  have  as  the  directing  hand  for  his  genius  an  acknowl- 
edged master  of  prose  style_,  his  god-father  Flaubert.  He 
taught  Maupassant  how  to  observe  accurately  and  express 
himself  clearly;  how  to  choose  his  characters  and  make  them 
act  in  such  a  way  as  to  seem  real  and  fit  the  part  assigned  to 
them  in  the  story.  Flaubert  read  all  of  Maupassant's  early 
poems  and  stories^  pointed  out  their  faults^  and  then  de- 
stroyed them,  with  the  result  that  when  the  young  appren- 
tice finally  began  to  publish  his  work  it  was  the  finished 
product  of  an  expert  in  the  art  of  writiilg. 

The  two  outstanding  features  of  Maupassant's  stories  are 
precision  of  observation  and  simplicity  of  style.  He  had  no 
theories  of  life  to  expound,  no  propaganda  to  advance.  He 
himself  says  that  his  onlv  doctrine  was  to  portray  nature, 
that  is,  human  nature,  faithfully.  He  chose  his  characters 
as  they  presented  themselves  to  him  in  his  own  experience, 
and  then  contrived  the  story  around  them.  He  never  tries 
to  explain ;  he  simply  gives  the  facts.  The  reader  draws  his 
own  conclusion.  Maupassant  is,  in  other  words,  uncom- 
promisingly realistic. 

Maupassant's  work  fills  thirty  volumes,  comprising  six 
novels  and  two  hundred  and  twelve  short  stories.  The 
range  of  his  characters  and  situations  is  equally  extensive. 
He  portrays  the  peasants  of  his  native  Normandy,  the  bour- 
geoisie and  the  working  classes  both  of  the  country  and  ol 
Paris,  small  tradesmen  and  their  employees,  government 
clerks,  the  men  and  women  working  on  the  Parisian  news- 

192 


MAUPASSANT  I93 

papers  and  magazines,  and  finally,  the  gentlemen  and  ladies 
of  the  salons.  Add  to  these  the  mystic  and  fantastic  sub- 
jects that  came  to  him  in  those  moments  when  his  chronic 
nervous  disorder  caused  his  visions  to  be  distorted,  and 
the  category  of  Maupassant's  material  is  fairly  complete. 

Many  of  his  stories  touch  upon  the  harshness  of  the  strug- 
gle for  existence,  often  in  its  most  primitive  form,  the  mere 
difficulty  of  making  ends  meet;  or  again,  the  emphasis  is 
placed  upon  the  desire  for  money  to  secure  certain  ends — - 
social  or  political  or  for  the  pursuit  of  pleasure.  Some- 
times there  is  humor,  a  sort  of  grim  humor,  especially  in  his 
earlier  stories.  He  liked  to  tell  of  the  barren  life  of  the 
underpaid  officials  of  the  bureaus.  The  Necklace  being  not 
only  the  best  of  this  type  of  Maupassant  story,  but  in  the 
opinion  of  many  critics  the  most  perfect  short  story  in  any 
language. 

Of  the  other  selections  in  this  book.  Fright,  The  Two 
Friends,  and  The  Hand  are  excellent  examples  of  the  au- 
thor's power  of  calm  and  unadorned  realism  in  depicting 
the  horrible.  The  Wreck  is  a  pleasant  love  story,  a  type  not 
at  all  common  with  Maupassant. 

In  the  appreciation  of  Maupassant's  work  his  general 
pessimism  should  be  noted.  Even  when  he  laughs  it  is  the 
laugh  of  irony.  His  outlook  on  life  was  essentially  bitter, 
yet  he  makes  the  reader  feel  that  the  bitterness  is  not  in 
the  writer  but  in  the  essence  of  things  as  they  are.  And 
the  fact  that  he  wrote  mostly  about  people  in  ordinary  life 
makes  the  gloom  all  the  deeper.  His  stories  almost  inva- 
riably emphasize  the  tragedy  of  the  commonplace. 

However,  even  in  the  most  unpleasant  of  his  stories  the 
reader  is  conscious  of  the  high  art  of  the  writer.  There 
is  no  exuberance  of  words,  there  are  no  overwrought  pas- 
sages, nothing  to  impede  the  progress  of  the  story.  So 
carefully  did  Maupassant  write  that  not  a  word  seems  super- 
fluous, out  of  place,  wanting.  Every  word,  every  idea,  every 
incident  is  given  its  proper  value;  just  that  and  no  more. 
These  are  some  of  the  qualities  of  Maupassant's  style  that 
are  the  despair  of  all  imitators. 

7 


194  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES  ^^^, 

The  last  few  years  of  his  life  were  spent  very  miseraH^ 
in  a  private  sanitarium  near  Paris^  where  he  died  July  6, 
1893. 

THE   NECKLACE^ 

By  GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 

She  was  one  of  those  pretty  and  charming  girls^  born  as 
by  a  mistake  of  destiny,  in  a  family  of  clerks.  She  had  no 
dowry,  no  expectations,  no  means  of  being  known,  under- 
stood, loved,  or  married  by  a  rich  and  distinguished  man ;  so 
she  let  herself  be  married  to  an  ordinary  clerk  in  the  Depart- 
ment of  Public  Instruction. 

She  was  simple  in  her  dress  because  she  could  not  be 
elegant;  but  she  was  unhappy,  like  one  kept  out  of  her 
proper  class;  for  with  women  there  is  neither  caste  nor 
rank.  Their  beauty,  their  grace,  and  their  charm  serve  in- 
stead of  birth  and  family.  Native  delicacy,  an  instinct  for 
what  is  fine,  and  their  nimbleness  of  wit  constitute  their  only 
hierarchy,  making  daughters  of  the  people  the  equals  of  the 
greatest  ladies. 

She  suffered  ceaselessly,  feeling  herself  born  for  every 

delicacy  and   every  luxury.      She   suffered,  because  of  the 

poverty  of  her  dwelling,  the  wretchedness  of  its  walls,  the 

worn   chairs,   and  the  ugliness   of  the  hangings.     All  the 

things  which  any  other  woman  of  her  class  would  not  even 

have  noticed,  tortured  her  and  made  her  angry.     The  sight 

j  of  the  little  Breton  girl  who  did  her  humble  housework  awoke 

I  in  her  tormenting  regrets  and  distracted  dreams.     Her  mind 

dwelt  on  silent  ante-rooms  hung  with  Oriental  tapestries, 

lighted  by  tall  bronze  lamps,  and  on  the  two  tall  footmen  in 

knee  breeches,  dozing  in  the  big  armchairs,  made  drowsy  by 

the  heavy  warmth  of  the  stove.     She  thought  of  long  par- 

1.  Translated  by  H.  C.  Schweikert. 


THE  NECKLACE  195 

lors  decorated  with  old  silk^  of  delicate  furniture  laden  with 
precious  bric-a-brac^  and  of  coquettish  little  rooms,  scented, 
made  for  the  small-talk  at  five  o'clock  with  one's  most  inti- 
mate friends,  men  well  known  and  much  sought  after,  whose 
attention  is  the  envy  and  desire  of  every  woman. 

When  she  sat  down  to  dinner,  at  the  round  table  covered 
with  a  cloth  three  days  old,  opposite  her  husband,  who 
Uncovered  the  tureen,  and  said  with  an  air  of  satisfaction, 
J 'Ah,  the  good  pot-au-feu!  ^  I  don't  know  anything  better 
than  that,"  she  was  thinking  of  dainty  repasts,  with  shining 
silver,  of  tapestry  which  peopled  the  walls  with  ancient 
personages  and  strange  birds  in  the  midst  of  a  fairy  forest ; 
and  of  exquisite  dishes  served  on  marvelous  plates,  of  whis- 
pered gallantries  listened  to  with  sphinx-like  smile,  while 
eating  the  pink  flesh  of  a  trout  or  the  wings  of  a  quail. 

She  had  no  dresses,  no  jewels,  nothing.  And  she  loved 
nothing  more  than  that ;  she  felt  herself  made  for  that.  She 
would  so  much  have  liked  to  please,  to  be  envied,  to  be  attrac- 
tive and  sought  after. 

She  had  a  rich  friend,  a  companion  of  her  convent  days, 
whom  she  no  longer  wanted  to  go  to  see,  because  she  suffered 
so  much  when  she  returned.  And  she  wept  all  day  long, 
from  chagrin,  from  regret,  from  despair,  and  from  distress. 

But  one  evening  her  husband  came  home  with  an  air  of 
triumph,  holding  a  large  envelope  in  his  hand. 

"There,"  said  he,  "there  is  something  for  you." 

She  quickly  tore  the  paper  and  drew  out  a  printed  card 
which  bore  these  words : 

"The  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  and  Mme.  Georges 
Ramponneau  beg  M.  and  Mme.  Loisel  to  honor  them  with 
their  presence  at  the  palace  of  the  Ministry,  Monday, 
January  18." 

Instead  of  being  delighted,  as  her  husband  hoped,  she 

2.  A  dish  consisting  of  meat  and  vegetables  boiled  together. 


196  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


disdainfully  threw  the  invitation,  on  the  table,  murmur- 
ing: 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  that?'' 

"But,  my  dear,  I  thought  you  would  be  pleased.  You 
never  go  out,  and  here  is  an  opportunity,  a  splendid  one.  I 
had  considerable  trouble  to  get  it.  Everybody  is  after  them ; 
it  is  a  very  select  affair  and  not  many  are  given  to  clerks. 
The  entire  official  world  will  be  there." 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  irritation  and 
declared  impatiently: 

"What  am  I  to  put  on  my  back  to  go  there?" 

He  had  not  thought  of  that;  he  stammered: 

"Why,  the  dress  you  wear  to  the  theater.  That  seems 
very  fine  to  me." 

Astonished  and  distracted,  he  said  nothing  more.  His 
wife  was  crying.  Two  large  tears  rolled  slowly  from  the 
corners  of  her  eyes  to  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  He 
stuttered: 

"What's  the  matter?     What's  the  matter?" 

But  by  a  violent  effort  she  had  overcome  her  difficulty, 
and  she  replied  in  a  calm  voice,  as  she  wiped  her  moist 
cheeks : 

"Nothing.  Only  I  have  no  clothes  and  therefore  can't 
go  to  this  affair.  Give  your  card  to  some  colleague  whose 
wife  has  better  clothes  than  I." 

He  was  grieved.    He  resumed: 

"Let's  see,  Mathilde.  How  much  would  a  suitable  dress 
cost,  one  which  you  could  use  on  other  occasions,  something 
very  simple?" 

She  reflected  several  seconds,  making  calculations,  and 
thinking  also  of  the  sum  she  could  ask  without  an  imme- 
diate refusal  and  a  frightened  exclamation  from  the  eco- 
nomical clerk. 

At  last  she  replied,  hesitatingly : 


THE  NECKLACE  I97 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I  believe  I  could  do  with  four 
hundred  francs/*^ 

He  grew  pale,  for  he  was  reserving  just  that  amount  to 
purchase  a  gun  and  treat  himself  to  a  little  shooting  the 
coming  summer  on  the  plain  of  Nanterre  with  several  friends 
who  used  to  go  there  Sundays  to  shoot  larks. 

However,  he  said : 

"All  right.  I'll  give  you  four  hundred  francs.  But  do 
try  to^have  a  pretty  dress." 

The  day  of  the  party  was  drawing  near,  and  Mme.  Loisel 
seemed  sad,  restless,  anxious.  Her  dress  was  ready,  how- 
ever.    Her  husband  said  to  her  one  evening: 

"What's  the  matter.^  You've  been  quite  queer  the  last 
three  days." 

And  she  answered: 
/  "It  annoys  me  not  to  have  a  single  jewel,  not  a  stone  to 
put  on.     I  shall  look  wretched.     I'd  almost  rather  not  go  to 
the  reception." 

"You  could  wear  natural  flowers.  It's  very  stylish  this 
time  of  the  year.  For  ten  francs  you  can  get  two  or  three 
magnificent  roses." 

She  was  not  convinced. 

"No ;  there's  nothing  mere  humiliating  than  to  look  poor 
among  women  who  are  rich." 

But  her  husband  continued : 

"How  stupid  of  you!  Go  find  your  friend  Mme.  Fores- 
tier,  and  ask  her  to  lend  you  some  jewelry.  You  have  been 
close  enough  to  her  to  do  that." 

She  gave  a  cry  of  j  oy : 

"That's  true.     I  had  not  thought  of  that." 

The  next  day  she  went  to  her  friend  and  told  her  dis- 
tress. 

3.  About  eighty  dollars. 


198 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


Mme.  Forestier  went  to  her  mirrored  wardrobe^,  took  out  a 
large  j  ewelry-box,  opened  it^  and  said  to  Mme.  Loisel : 

"Choose,  my  dear." 

First  she  saw  some  bracelets,  then  a  pearl  necklace,  then 
a  Venetian  cross,  gold  and  precious  stones,  of  admirable 
workmanship.  She  tried  on  the  ornaments  before  the  glass, 
hesitated,  and  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  leave  them, 
to  give  them  back.    She  kept  on  asking: 

"You  haven't  any  others.^" 

"Why,  yes.  Look.  I  don't  know  what  may  please 
you." 

All  at  once  she  discovered,  in  a  box  of  black  satin,  a 
superb  diamond  necklace,  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  with 
immoderate  longing.  Her  hands  trembled  as  she  took  it 
up.  She  fastened  it  around  her  neck,  over  her  high-necked 
dress,  and  was  rapt  in  ecstasy  at  the  sight  of  herself. 

Then  she  asked,  hesitatingly,  full  of  anxiety: 

"Can  you  let  me  have  this,  only  this?" 

"Why,  yes;   certainly." 

She  sprang  upon  her  friend's  neck,  embraced  her  warmly, 
and  then  escaped  with  her  treasure. 

The  day  of  the  party  came.  Mme.  Loisel  was  a  success. 
She  was  the  best  looking  of  them  all,  elegant,  gracious, 
smiling,  and  crazy  with  j  oy.  All  the  men  were  looking  at 
her,  asking  who  she  was,  and  seeking  an  introduction.  All 
the  attaches  of  the  Cabinet  wanted  to  waltz  with  her.  The 
Minister  himself  took  notice  of  her. 

She  danced  in  a  transport  of  delight,  intoxicated  with 
pleasure,  thinking  of  nothing,  in  the  triumph  of  her  beauty, 
in  the  glory  of  her  success,  in  a  sort  of  cloud  of  happiness 
produced  by  all  this  homage  and  admiration,  of  this  victory 
so  complete  and  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  woman. 

She  left  about  four  in  the  morning.  Her  husband  had 
been  sleeping  since  midnight  in  a  small  deserted  ante-room. 


THE  NECKLACE  I99 

with  three  other  gentlemen  whose  wives  were  having  a  good 
time. 

He  threw  ovel*  her  shoulders  the  wraps  he  had  brought, 
modest  wraps  of  everyday  life,  the  poverty  of  which  was 
in  contrast  with  the  elegance  of  her  ball  dress.  She  felt 
this  and  wished  to  get  away  without  being  noticed  by  the 
other  women  who  were  wrapping  themselves  up  in  rich  furs. 

Loisel  held  her  back. 

"Wait  a  minute.   Youll  catch  cold.     1*11  call  a  cab." 

But  she  did  not  listen  to  him,  and  went  rapidly  down  the 
stairs.  When  they  came  to  the  street  they  could  not  find  a 
carriage ;  and  they  began  to  look  for  one,  shouting  to  drivers 
whom  they  saw  at  a  distance. 

They  went  down  towards  the  Seine,  in  disgust  and  shiver- 
ing from  the  cold.  Finally  they  found  on  the  quay  one  of 
those  old  night  carriages  which  one  does  not  see  in  Paris 
until  after  nightfall,  as  if  they  were  ashamed  of  their 
wretchedness  during  the  day. 

It  took  them  to  their  door.  Rue  des  Martyrs,  and  sadly 
/they  mounted  their  own  steps.  It  was  all  over,  for  her. 
j  He,  on  the  other  hand,  was  thinking  that  he  would  have  to 
be  at  the  office  by  ten  o'clock. 

She  removed  the  wraps  from  her  shoulders,  before  the 
looking-glass,  in  order  to  see  herself  once  more  in  her  glory. 
But  all  at  once  she  gave  a  cry.  She  no  longer  had  the  neck- 
lace around  her  neck ! 

Her  husband,  already  half  undressed,  asked: 

"What's  the  matter.?" 

She  turned  to  him  in  terror : 

"I — I — I  no  longer  have  Mme.  Forestier's  necklace." 

He  rose,  frightened. 

"What  ?— How  ? — It  isn't  possible !" 

And  they  searched  the  folds  of  her  dress,  the  folds  of  her 
cloak,  the  pockets,  everywhere.    But  they  did  not  find  it. 


200 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


He  asked: 

**You  are  sure  that  you  still  had  it  when  leaving  the  ball?" 

**Yes^  I  touched  it  while  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Ministry." 

**But  if  you  had  lost  it  in  the  street  we  should  have  heard 
it  drop.     It  must  be  in  the  carriage." 

"Yes,  very  likely.   You  took  his  number?" 

**No.    And  you,  didn't  you  look  at  it?" 

"No." 

They  looked  at  one  another,  thoroughly  upset.  Finally 
Loisel  dressed  again. 

"I'm  going  back  over  the  whole  route,"  said  he,  "on  foot, 
to  see  if  I  can't  find  it." 

And  he  went  out.  She  remained  there,  in  her  evening 
gown,  without  strength  to  go  to  bed,  utterly  depressed, 
without  a  fire,  without  thought. 

Her  husband  returned  about  seven  o'clock.  He  had  not 
found  it. 

He  went  to  the  Prefecture  of  Police,  to  the  newspapers 
to  offer  a  reward,  to  the  cab  companies ;  indeed,  he  went 
wherever  a  glimmer  of  hope  impelled  him  to  go. 

She  waited  all  day,  in  the  same  state  of  distraction  over 
this  frightful  disaster. 

Loisel  came  home  in  the  evening,  with  his  face  pale  and 
sunken;  he  had  discovered  nothing. 

"You  must  write  to  your  friend,"  he  said,  "that  you  have 
broken  the  clasp  of  the  necklace  and  that  you  are  having  it 
repaired.   That  will  give  us  time  to  turn  round." 

She  wrote  as  he  dictated. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  they  had  lost  all  hope. 

And  Loisel,  who  had  aged  five  years,  declared: 

"We  must  see  about  replacing  that  piece  of  jewelry." 

Next  day  they  took  the  box  in  which  it  had  been  contained 
to  the  jeweler  whose  name  was  on  the  inside.  He  consulted 
his  books. 


i 


THE  NECKLACE  201 

"It  was  not  I^  madame,  who  sold  that  necklace.  I  must 
only  have  furnished  the  case/* 

Then  they  went  from  one  jeweler  to  another^  searching 
for  a  necklace  like  the  other,  consulting  their  memories, 
sick,  both  of  them,  with  chagrin  and  anxiety. 

In  a  shop  in  the  Palais  Royal  ^  they  found  a  diamond 
necklace  which  seemed  to  them  quite  like  the  one  they  were 
looking  for.  It  was  priced  at  forty  thousand  francs,  but 
they  could  have  it  for  thirty-six. 

They  begged  the  jeweler  not  to  sell  it  for  three  days. 
And  they  made  a  bargain  that  he  would  take  it  back  for 
thirty-four  thousand  francs  if  the  other  was  found  before 
the  end  of  February. 

Loisel  had  eighteen  thousand  francs  which  his  father  had 
left  him.    He  had  to  borrow  the  rest. 

He  borrowed,  asking  a  thousand  francs  from  one,  five 
hundred  from  another,  five  louis  ^  here,  five  there.  He 
gave  notes,  made  ruinous  obligations,  did  business  with  the 
whole  tribe  of  money-lenders.  He  compromised  all  the  rest 
of  his  existence,  risked  his  signature  without  even  knowing 
whether  he  could  meet  his  obligation;  and,  terrified  by  the 
anguish  of  the  future,  by  the  black  misery  which  was  going 
to  fall  upon  him,  by  the  prospect  of  physical  privations  and 
moral  tortures  of  every  kind,  he  went  and  bought  the  neck- 
lace, laying  down  thirty-six  thousand  francs  on  the  jeweler's 
counter. 

When  Mme.  Loisel  took  the  necklace  back,  Mme.  Fores- 
tier  said,  with  an  air  of  inquiry: 

"You  should  have  brought  it  back  sooner,  for  I  might  have 
needed  it." 

Her  friend  had  been  in  dread  lest  Mme.  Forestier  should 

4.  A  palace  in  Paris  built  by  Richelieu  and  afterwards  left  to  Louis 
XIV.  It  has  galleries  and  arcades  still  famous  for  shops,  especially 
jewelry  shops. 

5.  Twenty  dollars. 


202 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


open  the  case,  but  her  fear  was  groundless.  If  she  had 
observed  the  substitution,  what  would  she  have  thought? 
What  would  she  have  said  ?  Would  she  not  have  been  taken 
for  a  thief  ? 

Mme.  Loisel  now  experienced  the  horrible  life  of  the 
needy.  Presently,  however,  she  took  her  part  heroically. 
That  frightful  debt  had  to  be  paid.  She  would  pay  it. 
They  sent  the  servant  away ;  they  changed  lodgings ;  they 
rented  an  attic  under  a  roof. 

She  learned  what  heavy  housework  was,  the  disagreeable 
duties  of  the  kitchen.  She  washed  the  dishes,  wearing  off 
her  rosy  nails  on  the  greasy  kettles  and  the  bottoms  of  the 
pans.  She  washed  the  soiled  linen,  the  shirts,  and  all  the 
rougher  things,  which  she  dried  on  a  line;  every  morning 
she  carried  the  garbage  down  to  the  street,  and  brought  up 
the  water,  stopping  to  regain  her  breath  on  every  landing. 
And,  dressed  like  a  woman  of  the  people,  she  went  to  the 
fruiterer,  the  grocer,  the  butcher,  with  her  basket  on  her 
arm,  bargaining,  insulted,  fighting  sou  ^  by  sou  with  her 
wretched  money. 

They  had  to  pay  some  notes  each  month,  and  renew 
others  to  gain  time. 

Her  husband  worked  evenings  making  fair  copies  of  a 
tradesman's  accounts,  and  at  night  he  often  did  copying 
at  five  sous  a  page. 

And  this  life  lasted  ten  years. 

At  the  end  of  ten  years  they  had  repaid  everything,  rates 
of  usury,  accumulations  of  compound  interest,  all. 

Mme.  Loisel  seemed  old  now.  She  had  become  a  typical 
woman  of  a  poor  household,  strong,  hard,  and  rough.  With 
hair  badly  combed,  her  skirts  untidy,  and  her  hands  red, 
she  talked  in  a  loud  voice,  and  washed  the  floor  with  copious 
splashings  of  water.     But,  at  times,  when  her  husband  was 

6.  One  cent. 


A 


THE  NECKLACE        ^  203 

at  the  office^  she  would  sit  down  by  the  window,  and  think 
of  that  evening  of  long  ago,  of  that  ball  where  she  had  been 
so  beautiful  and  so  courted. 

What  would  have  happened  if  she  had  not  lost  that  neck- 
ace?     Who  knows?     Who  knows?     How  singular  is  life, 
and  how  changeable !     How  little  a  thing  it  takes  to  be  lost 
i  or  saved ! 

But,  one  Sunday,  as  she  was  taking  a  walk  in  the 
Champs-Elysees  as  a  relief  from  her  cares  of  the  week, 
she  all  at  once  saw  a  woman  walking  with  a  child.  It 
was  Mme.  Forestier,  still  young,  still  beautiful,  still 
attractive. 

Mme.  Loisel  was  moved.  Should  she  go  and  speak  to 
her?  Why,  certainly.  Now  that  she  had  paid,  she  would 
tell  her  everything.     Why  not? 

She  approached  her. 

**Good  afternoon,  Jeanne." 

The  other  woman  did  not  recognize  her,  and  was  aston- 
ished at  being  spoken  to  so  familiarly  by  this  woman  of  the 
common  people.    She  stammered: 

"But,  madame, — I  do  not  know — You  must  have  made  a 
mistake." 

"No.     I  am  Mathilde  Loisel." 

"Oh ! — My  poor  Mathilde,  how  you  have  changed !" 

"Yes,  I  have  indeed  had  hard  days  since  I  last  saw  you; 
and  much  misery — and  that  because  of  you." 

"Of  me — How  can  that  be?" 

"You  remember  that  diamond  necklace  you  lent  me  to  go 
to  the  ball  at  the  Ministry?" 

"Yes.    What  of  that.?"       . 

"Well,  I  lost  it." 

"What?     Why,  you  returned  it." 

"I  bought  you  one  just  like  it.  And  for  ten  years  we've 
been  paying  for  it.  You  will  understand  that  it  was  no  easy 


204  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

matter  for  us,  who  had  nothing.  At  last  that  is  over,  and 
I'm  happy  enough." 

Mme.  Forestier  had  stopped. 

"You  say  that  you  bought  a  diamond  necklace  to  replace 
mine?" 

"Yes.  You  didn't  even  notice  it,  then,  did  you?  They 
were  very  much  alike." 

And  she  smiled  with  a  proud  and  naive  joy. 

Mme.  Forestier,  strongly  moved,  took  hold  of  both  her 
hands. 

**0h !  My  poor  Mathilde !  Why,  mine  was  false.  It  was 
worth  at  most  &ye  hundred  francs !" 


THE   WRECK  1 

By  GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 

It  was  yesterday,  the  31st  of  December. 

I  had  just  finished  breakfast  with  my  old  friend,  Georges 
Garin.  The  servant  brought  him  a  letter  covered  with  seals 
and  foreign  stamps. 

Georges  said  to  me: 

** Allow  me.'*" 

"Certainly." 

And  he  began  to  read  an  eight-page  letter  written  in  a 
large  English  hand,  scrawled  in  every  direction.  He  read 
slowly,  giving  it  serious  attention,  with  that  interest  which 
one  gives  only  to  things  that  touch  the  heart. 

Then  he  placed  the  letter  on  the  edge  of  the  mantel- 
piece and  said: 

"Well,  here  is  a  curious  story  which  I  have  never  told 
you,  a  sentimental  story,  withal,  and  one  which  happened 
to  me!  Oh!  That  was  a  red-letter  day  for  me,  that  year. 
That  was  twenty  years  ago,  for  I  was  then  thirty  years  old, 
and  I  am  now  fifty. 

"I  was  then  an  inspector  for  the  Maritime  Insurance 
Company,  of  which  I  am  now  manager.  I  had  expected  to 
pass  New  Year's  Day  in  Paris,  since  it  is  the  custom  to 
make  that  day  a  holiday,  when  I  received  a  letter  from  the 
manager  ordering  me  to  set  out  immediately  for  the  Island 
of  Re,^  where  a  three-masted  schooner  from  Saint-Nazaire, 
insured  by  us,  had  just  been  stranded.  It  was  then  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning.     By  ten  o'clock  I  was  at  the  office 

1.  Translated  by  H.  C.  Schweikert. 

2.  An  island  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 

205 


206 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


to  get  my  instructions,  and  that  same  night  I  took  the 
express,  which  got  me  into  La  Rochelle^  the  next  day, 
the  31st  of  December. 

"I  had  two  hours  on  my  hands  before  going  aboard  the 
boat  for  Re,  the  Jean-Guiton.  I  took  a  turn  about  the  city. 
La  Rochelle  is  indeed  a  unique  town  of  impressive  character, 
with  its  labyrinthine  maze  of  streets  whose  sidewalks  run 
under  galleries  without  end,  galleries  and  arcades  like  those 
of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,^  but  low,  with  an  air  of  mystery,  as 
though  specially  built  to  tempt  conspirators,  and  of  antique 
appearance,  savoring  of  the  wars  of  olden  times,  the  heroic 
and  savage  wars  of  religion.  It  is  indeed  the  old  Huguenot  ^ 
city,  grave,  discreet,  without  any  great  art,  and  none  of 
those  wonderful  monuments  which  make  Rouen  ^  so  mag- 
nificent; yet  it  is  striking  because  of  its  severe  physical 
outlines,  a  little  elusive  too,  a  city  of  determined  fighters, 
the  birthplace  of  many  fanaticisms,  a  city  in  which  flourished 
the  faith  of  the  Calvinists  ^  and  where  the  plot  of  the  Tour 
Sergeants'  ^  was  born. 

**After  I  had  wandered  about  these  picturesque  streets 
for  some  time  I  boarded  the  small  steamboat,  black  and 
squat,  which  was  to  take  me  to  the  Island  of  Re.  It  started, 
puffing  angrily,  passed  between  the  two  ancient  towers  which 
guard  the  port,  crossed  the  channel,  passed  out  beyond 
the  mole  built  by  Richelieu,^  the  enormous  rocks  of  which 
were  visible  above  the  water's  edge,  encircling  the  city  like 
an  immense  necklace ;  then  we  turned  towards  the  right. 

3.  A  city  In  southeastern  France,  on  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 

4.  A  street  in  Paris  noted  for  its  shops. 

5.  The  name  given  to  the  Protestants  in  France  in  the  15th  and 
16th  centuries.    They  were  often  subjected  to  persecution. 

6.  A  city  on  the  Seine  River.  It  is  noted  for  its  shipping,  for  its 
architectural  monuments,  and  as  the  scene  of  the  burning  of  Joan  of 
Arc. 

7.  The  Protestants  who  were  followers  of  John  Calvin  instead  of 
Luther.     In  France  they  were  called   Huguenots. 

8.  Four  conspirators  beheaded  in  Paris,  1822,  for  treason. 

9.  A  famous  French  statesman  (1585-1642). 


THE  WRECK  207 

"It  was  one  of  those  gloomy,  depressing  days,  which 
weigh  heavily  upon  one's  mind,  which  make  one  sick  at 
heart,  deadening  in  us  all  our  force  and  energy ;  a  day  gray 
and  frigid,  heavy  with  salty  fog,  damp  as  rain,  cold  as 
frost,  affecting  the  breathing  like  the  stench  of  a  sewer. 

"Under  this  low-hanging  and  forbidding  fog,  the  yellow 
sea,  shallow  and  sandy  from  washing  over  the  long  stretch 
of  beach,  remained  without  a  ripple,  without  movement, 
lifeless,  a  sea  of  muddy  water,  greasy  and  stagnant.  The 
Jean-Guiton  went  over  it,  rolling  a  little  through  habit, 
cutting  the  smooth  dark  surface,  leaving  behind  a  few  waves, 
a  few  splashes,  and  some  heavings  which  soon  calmed  them- 
selves. 

**I  began  talking  to  the  captain,  a  little  short  man  almost 
without  feet,  round  as  his  boat  and  balanced  like  it.  I 
wanted  some  details  about  the  wreck  upon  which  I  was 
going  to  make  an  estimate.  A  large  three-masted  vessel 
from  Saint-Nazaire,  the  Marie- Joseph,  had  gone  aground 
on  a  stormy  night,  on  the  sand-bars  near  the  Island  of  Re. 

**The  storm  had  thrown  the  ship  so  far  in,  wrote  the 
owner,  that  it  had  been  impossible  to  float  it  again,  and 
that  they  had  had  to  take  off  hastily  everything  detachable. 
It  was  my  business,  then,  to  examine  the  situation  of  the 
wreck,  figure  out  its  condition  before  the  storm,  and  decide 
if  all  possible  efforts  had  been  made  to  float  it.  I  came  as 
agent  of  the  company,  so  that  I  might  give  contradictory 
testimony  later,  if  necessary,  in  the  lawsuit. 

"Upon  receipt  of  my  report,  the  manager  would  take  such 
steps  as  he  thought  necessary  for  safeguarding  our  interests. 

"The  captain  of  the  Jean-Guiton  knew  all  about  the 
affair,  having  been  called  on  for  help,  with  his  boat,  in  the 
attempts  at  salvage. 

"He  told  me  the  story  of  the  wreck,  very  simply,  too. 
The  Marie- Joseph,  driven  by  the  furious  gale,  became  lost 


208 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


in  the  night,  and  steering  by  chance  on  a  foamy  sea — *a 
milk-soup  sea'  it  was  called  by  the  captain — was  wrecked 
on  those  immense  shoals  of  shifting  sands  which  make  the 
coasts  of  this  region  seem  like  limitless  Saharas  during  the 
hours  of  low  tide. 

**As  we  spoke  I  looked  around  and  ahead.  Between  the 
ocean  and  the  lowering  sky  there  was  an  open  space  through 
which  one  could  see  far.  We  were  skirting  a  shore.    I  asked: 

"  *Is  that  the  Island  of  Re.^' 

"  *Yes,  monsieur.' 

"And  all  at  once  the  captain,  pointing  with  his  right 
hand  straight  before  us,  indicated  to  me  an  object  almost 
imperceptible  on  the  open  sea,  and  said: 

**  *Look,  there  is  your  ship !' 

"  *  The  Marie-Joseph?' 

"  Tes.' 

"I  was  astounded.  That  black  speck,  well-nigh  invisible, 
which  I  should  have  taken  for  a  reef,  seemed  to  me  about 
two  miles  from  shore. 

"I  resumed: 

"  *But,  captain,  there  must  be  a  hundred  fathoms  of  water 
at  the  spot  you  are  indicating.' 

"He  laughed. 

"  *A  hundred  fathoms,  my  dear  sir !  .  .  .  Not  two  fathoms, 
I  assure  you  !\  .  . 

"He  was  from  Bordeaux.^^     He  continued: 

"  *It  is  high  tide  now,  twenty  minutes  of  ten.  Walk  along 
the  beach,  your  hands  in  your  pockets,  after  you  have 
lunched  at  the  Hotel  Daupin,  and  I'll  guarantee  that  by 
ten  minutes  of  three,  or  three  o'clock  at  the  most,  you  will 
have  walked  to  the  wreck,  without  getting  your  feet  wet, 
and  you  will  have  from  an  hour  and  three-quarters  to  two 

10.  In  the  French  the  captain  speaks  the  dialect  of  Bordeaux,  which 
it  is  impossible  to  reproduce  in  translation. 


THE  WRECK  209 

hours  to  remain  on  it;  no  longer,  though,  or  you'll  get 
caught.  The  further  out  the  tide  goes,  the  quicker  it  comes 
back.  The  coast  along  here  is  as  flat  as  a  bug.  Be  sure  to 
start  back  at  ten  minutes  of  five;  and  at  seven-thirty  you 
will  again  be  on  board  the  Jean-Guiton,  which  will  take 
you  back  this  very  night  to  the  quay  at  La  Rochelle.' 

"I  thanked  the  captain^  and  went  to  take  a  seat  on  the 
bow  of  the  boat,  to  take  a  look  at  the  little  town  of  Saint- 
Martin,  which  we  were  rapidly  approaching. 

"It  was  like  all  the  miniature  seaports  which  serve  as 
capitals  for  the  barren  little  islands  scattered  along  the 
continent.  It  was  a  large  fishing  village,  part  of  it  in  the 
water  and  part  on  land;  its  people  living  on  fish  and 
wild-fowl,  vegetables  and  shell-fish,  radishes  and  mussels. 
The  island  is  very  low,  little  cultivated,  but  seems 
well  populated.  However,  I  did  not  penetrate  into  the 
interior. 

* 'After  lunch  I  went  up  a  little  promontory,  and  from 
there,  as  the  tide  was  going  out  fast,  I  proceeded  across  the 
sand  towards  a  kind  of  black  rock  which  I  noticed  just 
above  the  water,  way  out. 

"I  walked  rapidly  across  this  yellow  level  of  sand,  elastic 
as  flesh,  and  it  seemed  to  sweat  under  my  steps.  The  sea 
had  been  there  a  while  before;  now  I  saw  it  far  out,  as 
though  fleeing  from  sight,  and  I  could  no  longer  distinguish 
the  line  which  separated  the  land  from  the  sea.  I  felt  as 
though  I  were  a  part  of  a  gigantic  and  supernatural  spec- 
tacle. The  Atlantic  had  just  been  before  me,  but  now  it 
sfeemed  to  have  disappeared  into  the  strand,  like  stage 
scenery  into  a  trap,  and  I  walked  now  in  the  middle  of  a 
desert.  Only  the  feeling  and  the  breath  of  the  salt  water 
remained  with  me.  I  smelled  the  odor  of  the  debris  left 
by  the  sea,  the  smell  of  the  ocean,  the  good,  strong-scented 
smell  of  the  coast.     I  walked  fast;    I  was  no  longer  cold; 


210  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

I  looked  at  the  wreck,  which  became  larger  the  nearer  I 
approached,  and  now  resembled  a  huge  stranded  whale. 

"It  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  earth,  and  on  that  vast 
expanse  of  sand,  flat  and  yellow,  it  assumed  surprising 
proportions.  I  reached  it  at  last,  after  an  hour's  walk. 
It  lay  upon  its  side,  split  open,  shattered,  its  broken  bones 
showing  like  those  of  an  animal,  and  its  ribs  of  tarred  wood 
pierced  by  large  nails  clearly  visible.  The  sand  already 
was  enveloping  it,  entering  through  the  rents,  holding  it, 
possessing  it,  never  to  let  go.  It  seemed  to  have  become 
rooted  in  the  sand.  The  prow  had  sunk  deep  into  that  soft, 
treacherous  sand,  while  the  stern,  high  in  the  air,  seemed 
to  throw  toward  the  sky,  like  a  hopeless  cry  of  appeal,  those 
two  white  words  on  the  black  planking,  Marie-Joseph, 

"I  climbed  upon  this  corpse  of  a  ship  by  the  lower  side; 
and  after  gaining  the  deck  I  went  down  into  the  interior. 
The  daylight,  coming  in  through  the  broken  hatches  and  the 
fissures  in  the  sides,  illuminated  sadly  what  looked  like 
long  and  somber  caves,  full  of  broken  timbers.  There  was 
nothing  inside  except  sand,  which  served  as  a  floor  to  these 
vaults  of  planks. 

"I  began  to  take  notes  on  the  condition  of  the  vessel. 
I  sat  down  on  a  broken  empty  barrel,  writing  by  the  light 
of  a  large  crack  through  which  I  could  see  the  limitless 
stretch  of  the  shore.  A  peculiar  shiver,  due  to  the  cold  and 
the  solitude,  crept  over  me  from  time  to  time ;  and  I  stopped 
writing  at  times  to  listen  to  the  vague  and  mysterious  sounds 
in  the  wreck:  the  sound  of  crabs  scraping  the  timbers  with 
their  hooked  claws,  the  sound  of  a  thousand  small  animals 
of  the  sea  already  attached  to  this  corpse;  the  sound,  soft 
and  regular,  of  the  worms  gnawing  ceaselessly,  making  a 
noise  like  that  of  a  gimlet,  as  they  dig  out  and  devour  the 
old  planks. 

**And  suddenly  I  heard  human  voices,  quite  near  me.     I 


THE  WRECK  211 

jumped  as  though  a  ghost  had  appeared.  For  a  moment 
I  really  thought  that  I  was  going  to  see  two  drowned  men 
rise  from  the  depths  of  that  sinister  hold,  who  would  tell 
me  how  they  died.  You  can  imagine  that  it  did  not  take  me 
long  to  pull  myself  up  on  the  deck,  with  all  the  strength 
that  lay  in  my  wrists.  I  saw,  standing  below  the  stern,  a 
tall  gentleman  and  three  young  ladies,  or,  rather,  a  tall  En- 
glishman and  three  young  misses.  Indeed,  they  were  more 
frightened  than  I  was,  when  they  saw  this  apparition  sud- 
denly appearing  on  the  abandoned  three-master.  The 
youngest  of  the  girls  ran  away ;  the  two  others  caught  hold 
of  their  father's  arms;  as  for  him,  he  opened  his  mouth — 
that  was  the  only  sign  which  indicated  his  emotion. 

**Then,  after  a  few  seconds,  he  said: 

"  *Ah,  mosieu,  you  are  the  proprietor  of  this  ship  ?' 

"  *Yes,  sir.' 

"'May  I  visit  it?' 

"  *Yes.' 

"He  then  spoke  a  long  sentence  in  English,  in  which  I 
distinguished  only  the  word  'gracious,'  repeated  several 
times. 

"As  he  was  looking  foi^^  a  place  to  climb  up,  I  pointed  out 
the  best  one  and  gave  him  a  helping  hand.  He  came  up; 
then  we  assisted  the  three  young  girls,  who  were  now  reas- 
sured. They  were  charming,  especially  the  oldest,  a  blonde 
of  eighteen  years,  fresh  as  a  flower,  so  delicate  and  dainty ! 
Truly,  the  pretty  English  girls  have  the  look  of  the  tender 
fruits  of  the  sea.  One  could  have  said  that  this  one  had  just 
risen  from  the  sand  and  that  her  hair  had  kept  some  of  its 
tint.  They  made  you  think,  with  their  exquisite  freshness, 
of  the  delicate  colors  of  pink  sea-shells  and  mother-of-pearl, 
rare,  mysterious,  born  in  the  unknown  depths  of  the  ocean. 

"She  spoke  French  a  little  better  than  her  father  and 
served  as  interpreter.     I  had  to  tell  the  story  of  the  wreck 


212  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

to  the  minutest  details,  and  I  invented  them,  as  though  I 
had  been  present  at  the  catastrophe.  Then  the  whole  family 
went  down  into  the  interior  of  the  wreck.  As  soon  as  they 
had  entered  that  dark  gallery,  poorly  lighted,  they  uttered 
cries  of  astonishment  and  admiration;  and  suddenly  the 
father  and  his  three  daughters  were  holding  sketch-books, 
which  doubtless  they  had  carried  concealed  in  the  folds  of 
their  heavy  wraps,  and  they  began  at  the  same  time  four 
pencil  sketches  of  this  bizarre  and  gloomy  scene. 

"They  were  seated  side  by  side  on  a  projecting  beam, 
and  the  four  sketch-books  on  the  eight  knees  were  covered 
with  little  black  lines  which  were  to  represent  the  shattered 
hull  of  the  Marie- Joseph, 

"Although  busy  with  her  sketch,  the  oldest  girl  kept  on 
talking  to  me  as  I  continued  my  inspection  of  the  remains 
of  the  ship. 

"I  learned  that  they  were  spending  the  winter  at  Biar- 
ritz,^^  and  that  they  had  come  to  the  Island  of  Re  expressly 
to  view  this  three-master  stuck  in  the  sand.  They  did  not 
have  the  usual  English  arrogance,  these  p«opl^)  they  were 
simple  and  straightforward,  of  that  class  of  wanderers  with 
which  England  is  covering  the  ^^iDrld.  The  father  was  tall 
and  slender,  his  red  face  fringed  with  whiskers,  a  sort  of 
living  sandwich,  a  slice  of  ham  in  the  form  of  a  human  head 
between  two  layers  of  hair.  The  daughters  were  like  young 
and  growing  herons,  long-legged,  slender  also,  except  the 
oldest;  and  all  three  were  good-looking — especially  the 
tallest. 

"She  had  such  a  droll  way  of  speaking,  of  telling  things, 
of  laughing,  of  understanding  and  not  understanding,  of 
raising  her  eyes  to  question  me,  eyes  like  the  deep  blue  sea, 
of  stopping  her  drawing  to  figure  out  what  I  had  said,  and 
of  beginning  her  work  again,  saying  'Yes'  or  *No' — that  I 

11.  A  French  bathing  resort  on  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 


THE  WRECK  213 

could  have  stayed  indefinitely  to  listen  to  her  and  look  at  her. 

"All  of  a  sudden  she  murmured : 

"  *I  heard  a  slight  movement  on  the  ship/ 

"I  listened;  and  I  immediately  made  out  a  slight  sound, 
peculiar,  continuous.  What  was  it?  I  got  up  and  looked 
through  the  crack,  and  uttered  a  sharp  cry. 

**The  tide  had  returned ;  and  it  was  about  to  surround  us ! 

"We  were  on  deck  in  a  trice.  It  was  too  late.  The  water 
encircled  us,  and  was  running  towards  the  shore  with  fright- 
ful speed.  No,  it  did  not  run,  it  glided  along,  it  crept, 
stretching  itself  as  though  it  were  carrying  out  a  definitely 
assigned  task.  Hardly  more  than  a  few  inches  of  water 
covered  the  sand;  but  already  the  water  was  so  far  in  that 
we  could  no  longer  see  the  fleeing  line  of  its  edge. 

"The  Englishman  wanted  to  jump  in,  but  I  held  him  back; 
for  flight  was  impossible,  because  of  the  deep  pools  which 
we  had  avoided  in  coming,  and  which  we  should  be  sure  to 
fall  into  on  our  return. 

"In  our  hearts  there  was  a  moment  of  horrible  anxiety. 
Then  the  little  English  girl  smiled  and  remarked: 

"  *It  is  we  who  are  the  shipwrecked  !* 

"I  wanted  to  laugh;  but  fear  prevented  me,  a  cowardly 
fright,  base  and  stealthy,  like  the  tide.  All  the  dangers 
to  which  we  were  exposed  appeared  to  me  at  once.  I  felt 
like  shouting  'Help  !*    But  to  whom  ? 

"The  two  younger  girls  were  clinging  to  their  father,  who 
looked  in  consternation  at  the  boundless  sea  around  us. 

"And  the  night  was  falling  with, the  same  rapidity  that 
the  ocean  was  rising,  a  heavy  night,  wet  and  icy. 

"I  said: 

"  'There  is  nothing  to  do  but  to  remain  on  the  boat.' 

"The  Englishman  responded: 

"  *0h !  yes.* 

"And  we  remained  there  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  a  half  hour. 


214  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

in  truths  I  know  not  how  long,  watching  the  yellow  water 
around  us  becoming  deeper  and  deeper,  eddying  about  so 
that  it  seemed  to  play  over  the  immense  shore  once  more 
recovered. 

*'One  of  the  little  girls  was  cold,  and  the  idea  suggested 
itself  that  we  go  below  again  to  shelter  ourselves  from  the 
light  but  icy  breeze,  which  struck  us  and  bit  our  skins. 

"I  was  leaning  on  the  hatch.  The  ship  was  full  of  water. 
We  had  to  keep  close  to  the  bulwarks  at  the  stern,  which 
protected  us  somewhat. 

"Darkness  now  enveloped  us,  and  we  remained  crowded 
one  against  the  other,  surrounded  by  the  shadows  of  the 
night,  and  by  the  sea.  Against  my  shoulder  I  felt  the 
trembling  of  that  little  English  girl,  whose  teeth  chattered 
every  now  and  then ;  but  I  felt  also  the  soft  warmth  of  her 
body  through  her  heavy  cloak,  and  that  warmth  was  as 
pleasing  to  me  as  a  kiss.  We  no  longer  talked ;  we  remained 
motionless,  silent,  cowering  like  beasts  in  a  ditch  during  a 
storm.  Yet  in  spite  of  all  this,  in  spite  of  the  night,  in  spite 
of  the  terrible  and  growing  danger,  I  began  to  feel  happy 
at  being  there,  glad  of  the  peril  and  the  cold,  glad  of  those 
long  hours  of  darkness  and  anxiety  which  I  had  to  spend  on 
that  spot,  so  near  that  pretty  and  charming  girl. 

"I  asked  myself  why  that  strange  feeling  of  happiness 
and  joy  which  permeated  me. 

"Why.?  Who  knows?  Because  she  was  there?  Who, 
she?  A  little  English  girl  whom  I  did  not  even  know?  I 
did  not  love  her,  I  did  not  know  her,  and  yet  I  felt  myself 
attracted,  conquered!  I  would  have  liked  to  save  her,  to 
devote  myself  to  her,  to  do  a  thousand  foolish  things! 
Strange  thing !  How  does  it  happen  that  the  presence  of  a 
woman  so  upsets  us?  Is  it  the  power  of  her  charm  which 
envelops  us  ?  Is  it  the  allurement  of  beauty  and  youth  which 
intoxicates  us  like  wine  ? 


THE  WRECK  215 

"Is  it  not  rather  a  sort  of  touch  of  love^  the  mysterious  love 
which  ceaselessly  seeks  to  unite  two  beings,  which  tries  its 
power  when  a  man  and  woman  are  brought  face  to  face, 
and  which  pervades  them  with  emotion,  an  emotion  confused, 
secret,  profound,  just  as  you  water  the  ground  to  make  the 
flowers  grow? 

"But  the  silence  of  the  darkness,  the  silence  of  the  sky, 
became  frightful,  for  we  could  hear  around  us,  vaguely,  a 
light  rustling  noise,  the  infinite  hollow  roar  of  the  rising  sea, 
and  the  monotonous  beating  of  the  current  against  the 
vessel. 

"Of  a  sudden,  I  heard  sobs.  The  youngest  of  the  girls 
was  crying.  Her  father  wanted  to  console  her,  and  they 
began  to  talk  in  their  own  language,  which  I  did  not  under- 
stand. I  gathered  that  they  were  reassuring  her,  and  that 
she  was  still  afraid. 

"I  asked  the  one  next  me: 

"  *Are  you  not  too  cold,  miss?* 

"  *0h !  yes ;  I  am  very  cold.' 

"I  wanted  to  give  her  my  cloak;  she  refused  it.  But  I 
had  taken  it  off  and  wrapped  her  up  in  it  in  spite  of  herself. 
In  the  brief  struggle  my  hand  met  hers,  and  it  gave  me  a 
pleasing  shiver  all  over. 

"For  some  minutes  the  air  had  been  growing  brisker,  the 
breaking  of  the  water  against  the  sides  of  the  ship  more 
strong. 

"I  rose;  a  strong  gust  of  wind  blew  over  my  face.  The 
wind  was  rising ! 

"The  Englishman  perceived  it  at  the  same  time,  and  he 
said  simply: 

"  'That  is  bad  for  us,  that.  .  .  .' 

"That  surely  was  bad,  it  was  certain  death  if  the  waves, 
even  feeble  waves,  struck  the  wreck  and  moved  it;  so  shat- 


216  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

tered  and  disjointed  was  it  that  the  first  heavy  sea  would 
carry  it  off  in  pieces. 

"So  our  anxiety  increased  from  second  to  second  as  the 
gusts  became  stronger  and  stronger.  Now  the  sea  was  be- 
coming a  little  rougher,  and  I  saw  in  the  darkness  lines  of 
white  appear  and  disappear,  lines  of  foam ;  while  each  wave 
shook  the  hulk  of  the  Marie-Joseph,  causing  an  abrupt 
tremor  which  rose  to  our  hearts. 

**The  English  girl  was  shaking;  I  felt  her  shivering 
against  me,  and  I  had  a  mad  desire  to  fold  her  in  my  arms. 

"Out  there,  before  us,  to  the  left,  to  the  right,  behind  us, 
the  lighthouses  were  glaring  along  the  coast — lights  white, 
yellow,  red,  revolving  like  enormous  eyes,  the  eyes  of  a 
giant  who  was  looking  at  us,  watching  us,  waiting  greedily 
for  us  to  disappear.  One  of  them  especially  irritated  me. 
It  went  out  every  thirty  seconds,  to  be  re-lit  immediately; 
it  was  truly  an  eye,  that  one,  with  its  lid  always  lowered 
over  its  fiery  glare. 

"From  time  to  time  the  Englishman  struck  a  match  to  see 
the  time ;  then  he  put  his  watch  back  into  his  pocket.  Sud- 
denly he  said  to  me,  over  the  heads  of  his  daughters,  with 
supreme  gravity: 

"  'Monsieur,  I  wish  you  a  Happy  New  Year.' 

**It  was  midnight.  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him  and  he 
shook  it.  Then  he  said  something  in  English,  and  presently 
he  and  his  daughters  began  to  sing  *God  Save  the  Queen,' 
which  rose  in  the  dark,  silent  air  and  was  lost  in  space. 

"First  I  had  a  desire  to  laugh;  then  I  was  seized  by  a 
strong  and  queer  emotion. 

"It  was  something  sinister  and  superb,  this  song  of  the 
shipwrecked,  of  the  condemned,  something  like  a  prayer, 
and  also  something  grander,  comparable  to  the  old  and 
sublime  Ave  Ccesar  morituri  te  salutamus}'^ 

4r^^'^' a'J^^^^'  ?^A®^^J,  y^^^  ^^^  a^^  about  to  die,  salute  you."  It  was 
the  address  of  the  Gladiators  entering  the  arena,  to  the  Caesar. 


THE  WRECK  217 

"When  they  had  finished  I  asked  the  girl  to  sing  by  her- 
self^ some  ballad^  what  she  would,  to  make  us  forget  our 
anxiety.  She  consented  and  soon  her  clear  and  youthful 
voice  took  wing  in  the  night.  She  was  singing  something 
sad,  no  doubt,  for  the  notes  were  long  drawn  out,  coming 
slowly  from  her  mouth,  and  fluttered,  like  wounded  birds, 
across  the  waters. 

"The  tide  became  higher  and  now  was  battering  our 
wreck.  As  for  me,  I  thought  of  nothing  but  that  voice.  And 
I  thought  also  of  the  Sirens.  If  a  boat  had  pas-sed  near  us, 
what  would  the  sailor  have  said?  My  troubled  spirit  was 
carried  away  in  a  dream !  A  Siren !  was  she  not,  in  fact,  a 
Siren,  this  child  of  the  sea,  who  had  held  me  on  this  worm- 
eaten  ship,  and  who,  in  a  very  short  while,  was  going  to 
sink  with  me  into  the  waves  } 

"But  all  five  of  us  were  suddenly  rolling  promiscuously 
over  the  deck,  because  the  Marie-Joseph  had  given  a  lurch 
to  her  right  side.  The  English  girl  had  fallen  right  over  me. 
I  caught  her  in  my  arms,  and  madly,  without  knowing  what 
I  was  doing,  believing  my  last  moment  had  come,  I  kissed 
her  on  the  lips,  on  the  temples,  on  the  hair.  The  boat  no 
longer  moved,  and  we  also  remained  motionless. 

"The  father  said:  *Kate!'  The  one  I  was  holding  an- 
iswered  *Yes/  and  made  a  movement  to  disengage  herself. 

"Surely,  at  that  instant,  I  could  have  wished  that  the  boat 
would  split  in  two,  so  that  I  might  fall  into  the  sea  with 
her. 

"The  Englishman  went  on: 

"  *  Just  a  trifle  of  a  lurch ;  it  is  nothing.  I  have  my  three 
daughters  safe.' 

"Not  seeing  the  oldest  girl,  he  had,  at  first,  thought  hei 
lost! 

"I  rose  slowly,  and,  all  at  once,  I  saw  a  light  on  the  sea, 
quite  near  us.    I  shouted ;  some  one  answered.    It  was  a  boat 


218  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

looking  for  us,  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel  having  foreseen 
our  imprudence. 

"We  were  saved.  I  was  sorry  for  it!  They  took  us  off 
from  our  raft  and  brought  us  back  to  Saint-Martin. 

"The  Englishman  now  rubbed  his  hands  and  murmured: 

"  'A  good  supper !    A  good  supper !' 

"We  supped;  but  I  was  not  lively;  I  regretted  the  Marie- 
Joseph. 

"We  had  to  separate  the  next  day,  after  many  hand- 
shakes and  promises  to  write.  They  went  to  Biarritz,  and 
I  came  near  following  them. 

"I  was  hit  hard;  I  wanted  to  ask  that  young  girl  to  marry 
me.  I  am  sure  that  if  we  had  passed  eight  days  together  I 
should  have  married  her.  How  weak  a  man  is  sometimes, 
and  how  incomprehensible ! 

"Two  years  rolled  by  without  my  hearing  a  word  from 
them.  Then  I  received  a  letter  from  New  York.  She  was 
married,  and  wrote  to  tell  me.  And  since  then  we  write 
every  year,  on  the  first  of  January.  She  tells  me  about  her 
life,  talks  about  her  children,  her  sisters,  but  never  about 
her  husband.  Why?  Ah,  why.^  And  as  for  me,  I  speak 
only  of  the  Marie-Joseph.  She  is  perhaps  the  only  woman 
I  ever  loved  .  .  .  no  .  .  .  should  have  loved.  .  .  .  But 
.  .  .  Ah!  .  .  .  Does  one  know?  .  .  .  The  events  of  life 
carry  you  along.  .  .  .  And  then  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  . 
everything  passes.  .  .  .  She  must  be  old  now.  ...  I 
wouldn't  know  her.  .  .  .  Ah!  Those  old  days  .  .  .  that 
wreck.  .  .  .  What  a  creature  .  .  .  divine !  She  writes  me 
that  her  hair  is  quite  white.  .  .  .  Good  heavens  !  .  .  .  That 
gives  me  a  terrible  pain.  ...  Ah !  Her  blonde  locks.  .  .  . 
No !  The  girl  I  knew  no  longer  exists.  .  .  ,  How  sad  it  is 
...  all  that.  .  .  /' 


FRIGHT^ 

By  GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 

After  dinner  we  again  went  up  on  the  bridge.  Before  us 
lay  the  Mediterranean^  its  silvery  calm  undisturbed  by  even 
a  single  ripple.  Our  steamer  glided  along^  casting  a  long 
serpent-like  trail  of  black  smoke  against  a  sky  which  seemed 
sprinkled  with  stars.  Behind  us  the  sea,  stirred  by  the 
swift  movement  of  the  heavy  vessel,  was  churned  into  foam 
by  the  blades  of  the  propeller,  and  it  seemed  to  writhe,  so 
that  its  white  surface,  broken  into  many  rays  of  light,  made 
it  appear  as  though  the  very  moonlight  was  boiling. 

Here  we  were,  some  six  or  eight  of  us,  in  silent  admiration, 
our  eyes  fixed  on  distant  Africa,  whither  we  were  bound. 
The  captain,  who  was  smoking  his  cigar  with  us,  resumed 
the  conversation  begun  at  dinner. 

**Surely  I  was  frightened  that  day.  My  ship  remained  six 
hours  with  that  rock  in  its  side,  constantly  battered  by  the 
sea.  Fortunately  for  us  we  were  picked  up  towards  evening 
by  an  English  collier  which  happened  to  sight  us." 

Thereupon  a  tall  man  with  a  tanned  face  and  a  serious 
expression,  one  of  those  men  who  give  the  impression  of 
having  traveled  far  in  unknown  lands,  always  surrounded  by 
danger,  and  whose  tranquil  eyes  seemed  to  retain  in  their 
depths  something  of  those  strange  lands  which  he  had  seen ; 
one  of  those  men  who  seem  to  be  fearlessly  daring,  now 
spoke  for  the  first  time : 

"You  say,  captain,  that  you  were  frightened.     I  have  to 
differ.     You  use  the  wrong  word  for  the  feeling  you  expe- 
rienced on  that  occasion.     A  strong  man  is  never  frightened 
1.  Translated  by  H.  C.  Schweikert. 
219 


220 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


in  the  presence  of  an  immediate  danger.  He  is  moved, 
agitated,  anxious;  but  frightened;  that's  another  thing." 

The  captain  replied,  laughing: 

"The  devil  you  say!  I  insist  that  I  was  a  frightened 
man." 

Then  the  man  with  the  bronzed  face  said,  speaking  slowly ; 

"Permit  me  to  explain.  Fright  (and  the  hardiest  of  men 
can  have  it)  is  something  horrible,  a  dreadful  sensation,  like 
the  decomposition  of  the  soul;  a  fearful  spasm  of  the  mind 
and  of  the  heart,  the  mere  memory  of  which  brings  shivers  of 
agony.  But  a  brave  man  does  not  experience  it  even  in  the 
moment  of  an  attack,  or  when  confronted  by  inevitable  death, 
or  in  the  presence  of  any  of  the  known  forms  of  danger ;  it 
takes  an  abnormal  situation,  mysterious  influences  in  the  face 
of  unknown  perils.  Real  fright  is  Ifke  a  sort  of  reminiscence 
of  the  fantastic  terrors  of  old.  A  man  who  believes  in  spirits 
and  imagines  himself  seeing  a  ghost  in  the  night  must  expe- 
rience fright  in  all  its  fearful  horror. 

"As  for  myself,  I  had  a  taste  of  fright  in  broad  daylight 
about  ten  years  ago.  I  felt  it  again  last  winter,  one  night  in 
December. 

"And  yet, 'I  have  certainly  had  many  a  narrow  escape, 
many  an  adventure  which  pointed  to  deadly  consequences. 
I  have  often  been  in  fights.  I  have  been  left  for  dead  by  rob- 
ber bands.  I  have  been  condemned  to  the  gallows  in  Amer- 
ica to  be  hanged  as  a  rebel ;  and  I  have  been  thrown  into  the 
sea,  near  the  coast  of  China,  from  the  bridge  of  a  ship. 
Each  time  I  thought  myself  lost,  accepting  my  fate  without 
comment  or  even  regret. 

"But  that  was  not  fright. 

"I  had  a  touch  of  it  while  in  Africa.  And  yet  fright  is  a 
child  of  the  north;  sunshine  dissipates  it  as  though  it  were 
a  fog.  Note  this  well,  gentlemen :  among  the  Orientals  life 
counts   for  nothing;   they   readily   resign   themselves;    the 


FRIGHT  221 

nights  are  clear,  and  free  of  the  somber  anxieties  which 
harass  the  imagination  of  the  people  of  northern  climes.  In 
the  East  men  know  paniC;,  but  they  do  not  know  what 
fright  is. 

"And  here  is  what  happened  to  me  in  that  land  of  Africa: 

"I  was  crossing  the  broad  sand  dunes  in  the  south  of 
Ouargla.^  That  is  one  of  the  strangest  countries  in  the 
world.  You  have  seen  the  smooth  sand  on  the  interminable 
beaches  of  the  ocean.  Well,  picture  the  ocean  itself  in  the 
midst  of  a  storm  suddenly  become  sand;  imagine  a  silent 
tempest  of  motionless  waves  of  yellow  sand.  They  are  as 
high  as  mountains,  these  waves,  unequal,  each  one  different^ 
and  heaving  as  though  they  had  just  been  unchained,  larger 
and  larger,  with  furrow-like  streaks  on  their  surface.  On 
this  raging  sea,  silent  and  motionless,  the  devouring  sun  of 
the  south  beats  down  remorselessly.  The  traveler  must 
climb  these  billows  of  golden  ashes,  come  down  again,  go  up, 
climbing  without  end,  without  rest,  without  shade.  The 
horses  pant,  sinking  to  their  knees,  and  slipping  as  they  go 
down  the  other  side  of  these  peculiar  hills. 

"There  were  two  of  us,  myself  and  a  friend,  acompanied 
by  eight  spahis  ^  and  four  camels  with  their  drivers.  We 
no  longer  talked,  weakened  by  the  heat,  tired  out,  and  dry 
as  the  desert  itself  with  thirst.  Suddenly  one  of  our  men 
gave  a  sort  of  cry;  all  of  us  stopped;  we  remained  motion- 
less, surprised  by  an  inexplicable  phenomenon  known  only 
to  travelers  in  those  desert  lands. 

"Somewhere,  near  us,  in  a  direction  which  we  could  not 
make  out,  we  heard  the  beating  of  a  drum,  the  mysterious 
drum  of  the  dunes;  the  beating  was  distinct,  now  strong, 
now  weaker,  stopping  entirely,  then  resuming  its  fantastic 
roll. 

2.  A  part  of  the  Sahara  Desert  in  Algeria. 

3.  Native  horse  soldiers  serving  in  the  French  army  in  Algeria. 


222  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"The  Arabs,  frightened,  looked  at  each  other;  one  said 
in  his  own  language,  'Death  is  upon  us/  And  behold,  all 
of  a  sudden  my  companion  and  friend,  almost  my  brother, 
fell  from  his  horse,  head  forward,  from  sunstroke. 

"For  two  hours,  during  which  I  tried  in  vain  to  save  him, 
that  drum  ceaselessly  kept  filling  my  ears  with  its  monoto- 
nous noise,  intermittent  and  incomprehensible ;  and  I  began 
to  feel  glide  into  my  bones  fright,  true  fright,  hideous  fright, 
there  in  the  presence  of  the  dead  body  of  my  beloved  friend, 
in  that  sun-scorched  trough,  between  four  hills  of  sand; 
while  here,  six  hundred  miles  from  the  nearest  French 
village,  continued  the  echo  of  the  beating  of  that  strange 
drum. 

"That  day  I  understood*  what  it  was  to  be  frightened ;  I 
knew  it  even  better  on  another  occasion.   ..." 

The  captain  interrupted  the  story-teller : 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,  but  that  drum  ?    What  was  it  ?" 

The  traveler  replied : 

"I  know  nothing  about  it.  No  one  knows.  Officers,  often 
surprised  by  that  singular  sound,  generally  attribute  it  to 
an  enlarged  echo,  multiplied,  immeasurably  swelled  by  the 
lioUows  of  the  dunes,  a  sort  of  hail  of  grains  of  sand  carried 
by  the  wind  and  thrown  against  tufts  of  dried  grass ;  for  it 
has  been  remarked  that  the  phenomenon  is  produced  in  the 
vicinity  of  small  plants  parched  by  the  sun  and  hard  as 
parchment. 

"This  drum  is  therefore  nothing  more  than  a  sort  of 
mirage  of  sound.   That's  all.    But  this  I  learned  only  later. 

"I  go  on  to  my  second  experience. 

**It  was  last  winter,  in  a  forest  in  the  northeast  of  France. 
Night  fell  two  hours  before  its  time  because  the  sky  was 
overcast.  My  guide  was  a  peasant  who  walked  at  my  side, 
along  a  very  narrow  path,  beneath  an  arch  of  fir-trees 
through  which  the  howling  wind  roared.     Between  the  tops 


FRIGHT  223 

I  saw  the  scattered  clouds  sweep  by,  clouds  distracted,  as 
though  fleeing  before  something  fearful.  At  times,  hit  by 
a  strong  gust,  the  whole  forest  bowed  down  in  the  same 
direction,  with  a  groan  as  of  suffering;  and  the  cold  pene- 
trated me  in  spite  of  my  rapid  pace  and  my  heavy  clothing. 

"We  were  to  have  supper  and  lodging  at  the  home  of  a 
forest  guard  whose  house  was  not  very  far  away.  I  was 
going  there  to  hunt. 

**My  guide  every  now  and  then  raised  his  eyes,  muttering, 
*Mi^erable  weather !'  Then  he  spoke  to  me  about  the  people 
to  whose  house  we  were  going.  The  father  had  killed  a 
poacher  two  years  before,  and  since  that  time  he  seemed 
melancholy,  as  though  haunted  by  the  memory  of  his  act. 
His  two  married  sons  lived  with  him. 

**It  was  pitch  dark.  I  saw  nothing  in  front  of  me,  nor 
around  me,  and  the  trees  clashing  with  one  another  filled  the 
night  with  a  ceaseless  rumble.  At  last  I  saw  a  light  and 
presently  my  companion  was  knocking  at  a  door.  We 
were  answered  by  the  shrill  cries  of  women.  Then  a  man's 
voice,  a  choked  voice,  asked  *Who's  there?'  My  guide  gave 
his  name.  We  entered.  The  picture  before  us  was  one  we 
shall  never  forget. 

*'An  old  white-haired  man,  wild-eyed,  a  loaded  gun  in  his 
hands,  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen  awaiting  us,  while 
two  husky  fellows,  armed  with  axes,  guarded  the  door.  In 
the  dark  corners  I  made  out  two  women  on  their  knees,  their 
faces  turned  towards  the  wall. 

"They  explained.  The  old  man  placed  his  weapon  against 
the  wall  and  ordered  my  room  to  be  made  ready ;  and  as  the 
women  did  not  budge  he  said  to  me,  gruffly : 

"  *You  see.  Monsieur,  I  killed  a  man,  two  years  ago  to- 
night. Last  year  he  came  back  and  called  my  name.  I  am 
expecting  him  again  tonight!' 

"And  he  added,  in  a  tone  which  almost  made  me  smile : 


224  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"  'So  we  are  not  very  calm.' 

"I  removed  his  fears  as  best  I  could,  pleased  to  have  come 
on  just  this  evening,  when  I  could  witness  this  display  ot 
superstitious  terror.  I  told  stories,  and  succeeded  somewhat 
in  calming  nearly  all  of  them. 

"Near  the  fireplace  an  old  dog,  shaggy-haired  and  almost 
blind,  one  of  those  dogs  who  seemed  to  resemble  someone 
whom  we  know,  lay  asleep,  his  nose  between  his  paws. 

"Outside  the  furious  storm  beat  upon  the  little  house, 
and  through  a  narrow  window,  a  sort  of  peep-hole  placed 
near  the  door,  I  saw  every  now  and  then,  in  the  flashes  ot 
the  lightning,  a  confusion  of  trees  j  ostled  about  by  the  wind. 

"In  spite  of  my  efforts  I  could  feel  that  a  profound  terror 
gripped  these  people,  and  every  time  I  stopped  speaking 
every  ear  was  turned  as  though  to  catch  a  distant  sound. 
Tired  of  witnessing  these  foolish  fears,  I  was  about  to  ask 
to  be  shown  to  my  room,  when  the  old  guard  made  a  sudden 
bound  from  his  chair,  again  seized  his  gun,  and  exclaimed  in 
a  wild  and  broken  voice :  *Here  he  is !  Here  he  is !  I  hear 
him!'  The  two  women  again  fell  to  their  knees  in  their 
corners,  hiding  their  faces ;  and  the  sons  again  took  up  their 
axes.  I  was  once  more  going  to  try  to  calm  them  when  the 
sleeping  dog  roused  himself  abruptly,  and,  raising  his  head, 
stretching  out  his  neck,  gazing  into  the  fire  with  his  dimmed 
eyes,  he  gave  forth  one  of  those  mournful  howls  which  so 
often  startle  travelers  at  night  in  the  country.  All  eyes 
were  centered  on  him,  but  he  remained  motionless,  erect  on 
his  feet  as  though  haunted  by  a  vision,  and  began  to  howl 
towards  some  invisible  object,  unknown,  fearful,  no  doubt, 
because  his  hair  was  bristling.  The  guard,  pale,  cried:  *He 
scents  him!  He  scents  him!  He  was  there  when  I  killed 
him.'  And  the  two  women,  both  utterly  distracted,  began 
to  howl  with  the  dog. 

"In  spite  of  piyself  I  felt  a  cold  shiver  between  my  shoul- 


FRIGHT  225 

ders.  The  sight  of  that  animal  in  that  position  at  that  hour, 
in  the  midst  of  those  excited  people,  was  frightful  to  see. 

'*So  for  an  hour  the  dog  howled  without  moving;  he 
howled  like  someone  in  the  agony  of  a  dream;  and  fright, 
terrible  fright,  took  hold  of  me.  Fright  of  what?  Do  I 
know?     It  was  fright,  that's  all. 

''We  remained  motionless,  pale,  awaiting  some  ghastly 
outcome,  alert,  with  beating  heart,  upset  at  the  least  noise. 
And  the  dog  began  to  walk  around  the  room,  sniffing  the 
walls  and  growling  constantly.  That  beast  drove  us  mad! 
Presently  my  guide  grabbed  him  in  a  sort  of  paroxysm  of 
furious  terror,  and,  opening  a  door  which  gave  upon  a  small 
court,  he  pitched  the  animal  out. 

**The  dog  immediately  became  quiet;  and  we  remained  in 

a  spell  of  silence  even  more  terrifying.     Suddenly  all  of  us 

together  gave  a  start;  some  being  scraped  against  the  wall 

on  the  outside  in  the  direction  of  the  forest ;  it  passed  against 

the  door,  groping  along  as  with  a  hesitating  hand ;  then  we 

heard  nothing  for  about  two  minutes,  which  almost  drove  us 

insane ;  then  it  came  back,  continually  grazing  the  wall ; 

!  there  was  a  light  scratching,  such  as  a  child  might  make 

'  with  its  nails ;  then  all  of  a  sudden  a  head  appeared  against 

I  the  glass  of  the  peep-hole,  a  white  head  with  two  glistening 

{ eves  like  those  of  a  deer.    And  a  sound  came  from  its  mouth, 

an  indistinct  sound,  a  plaintive  murmur. 

"Then  there  was  the  noise  of  a  great  explosion  in  the 
kitchen.  The  old  guard  had  fired.  Quickly  the  sons  ruslied 
forth  and  stopped  up  the  pe^-hole  by  putting  the  table 
against  it,  buttressing  it  with  the  sideboard.  And  I  vow 
that  at  the  crash  of  the  gun-shot,  which  I  was  not  expecting, 
I  felt  such  a  depression  of  the  heart,  the  soul,  and  the  body, 
that  I  was  near  collapsing,  ready  to  die  from  fright. 

"We  remained  there  until  dawn,  unable  to  move  or  to  say 
a  word,  spellbound  by  an  unspeakable  terror. 

8 


226  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"We  did  not  dare  to  free  the  door  of  its  barricade  until  wel 
saw  through  a  crack  at  the  top  a  thin  ray  of  daylight. 

"At  the  foot  of  the  wall,  against  the  door,  the  old  dog  lay, 
his  jaw  shattered  by  a  bullet. 

"He  had  escaped  from  the  yard  by  digging  a  hole  beneath 
the  fence." 

The  man  with  the  tanned  face  stopped  talking;  then  he 
added: 

"That  night,  however,  I  ran  no  risk  of  danger;  yet  I 
should  rather  experience  again  every  hour  in  which  I  was 
confronted  with  the  most  terrible  perils  than  that  single 
minute  of  the  shot  of  that  gun  at  the  bearded  head  against 
the  peep-hole/' 


TWO  FRIENDS  1 

By  GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 

Paris  was  blockaded^,  famished,  at  the  last  gasp.  Spar- 
rows were  scarce  on  the  roofs,  and  the  sewers  depleted  of 
their  rats.    Every  mortal  thing  was  being  eaten. 

Strolling  sadly  along  the  outer  boulevard  on  a  fine  Janu- 
ary morning,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  military 
trousers,  and  his  stomach  empty,  M.  Morissot,  a  watch- 
maker by  profession,  and  a  man  of  his  ease  when  he  had  the 
chance,  caught  sight  of  a  friend,  and  stopped.  This  was  M. 
Sauvage,  an  acquaintance  he  had  made  out  fishing. 

For  before  the  war  Morissot  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
starting  out  at  dawn  every  Sunday,  rod  in  hand,  and  a  tin 
box  on  his  back.  He  would  take  the  train  to  Argenteuil,^ 
get  out  at  Colombes,  then  go  on  foot  as  far  as  the  Island  of 
Marante.  The  moment  he  reached  this  Elysium  of  his 
dreams  he  would  begin  to  fish,  and  fish  till  night.  Every 
Sunday  he  met  there  a  little  round  and  jovial  man,  this  M. 
Sauvage,  a  haberdasher  of  Rue  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette,  also 
a  perfect  fanatic  at  fishing.  They  would  often  pass  half  the 
day  side  by  side,  rod  in  hand,  feet  dangling  above  the  stream, 
and  in  this  manner  had  become  fast  friends.  Some  days  they 
did  not  talk,  other  days  they  did.  But  they  understood  each 
other  admirably  without  words,  for  their  tastes  and  feelings 
were  identical. 

On  spring  mornings,  about  ten  o'clock,  when  the  young 
sun  was  raising  a  faint  mist  above  the  quiet-flowing  river, 

1.  From  Yvette  and  Other  Stories.  Translated  by  Mrs.  John  Gals- 
worthy and  printed  by  permission  of  the  publisher,  Alfred  A.  Knopf, 
New  York. 

2.  A  town  six  miles  out  from  Paris. 

227 


228 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


and  blessing  the  backs  of  those  two  passionate  fishermen 
with  a  pleasant  warmth,  Morissot  would  murmur  to  his 
neighbor :  "I  say,  isn't  it  heavenly  ?"  and  M.  Sauvage  would 
reply:  "Couldn't  be  jollier !''  It  was  quite  enough  to  make 
them  understand  and  like  each  other. 

Or  in  autumn/  towards  sunset,  when  the  blood-red 
sky  and  crimson  clouds  were  reflected  in  the  water,  the  whole 
river  stained  with  color,  the  horizon  flaming,  when  our  two 
friends  looked  as  red  as  fire,  and  the  trees,  already  russet  and 
shivering  at  the  touch  of  winter,  were  turned  to  gold,  M. 
Sauvage  would  look  smilingly  at  Morissot,  and  remark: 
**What  a  sight !"  and  Morissot,  not  taking  his  eyes  off  his 
float,  would  reply  ecstatically:  **Bit  better  than  it  is  in 
town,  eh?" 

Having  made  sure  of  each  other,  they  shook  hands  heart- 
ily, quite  moved  at  meeting  again  in  such  different  circum- 
stances. M.  Sauvage,  heaving  a  sigh,  murmured:  "Nice 
state  of  things!"  Morissot,  very  gloomy,  quavered  out: 
"And  what  weather !     Today's  the  first  fine  day  this  year !" 

The  sky  was  indeed  quite  blue  and  full  of  light. 

They  moved  on,  side  by  side,  ruminative,  sad.  Morissot 
pursued  his  thought:  "And  fishing,  eh?  What  jolly  times 
we  used  to  have !" 

"Ah !"  muttered  M.  Sauvage.  "When  shall  we  go  fishing 
again?" 

They  entered  a  little  cafe,  took  an  absinthe  together,  and 
started  off  once  more,  strolling  along  the  pavement. 

Suddenly  Morissot  halted:     "Another  nip?"  he  said. 

"Right-o !"  responded  M.  Sauvage.  And  in  they  went  to 
another  wine-shop.  They  came  out  rather  light-headed, 
affected  by  so  much  alcohol  on  their  starving  stomachs.  The 
day  was  mild,  and  a  soft  breeze  caressed  their  faces. 

M.  Sauvage,  to  whose  light-headedness  this  warmth  was 


I 


TWO  FRIENDS  229 


putting  the  finishing  touchy  stopped  short :    "I  say — suppose 
we  go  y 

"What  d'you  mean?*' 
"Fishing!** 
"Where?** 

"Why^  at  our  island.  The  French  outposts  are  close  to 
J  Colombes.  I  know  Colonel  Dumoulin ;  he'll  be  sure  to  let  us 
j  pass.** 

Morissot  answered,  quivering  with  eagerness :    "All  right ; 
I*m  on  !**    And  they  parted,  to  get  their  fishing  gear. 

An  hour  later  they  were  marching  along  the  high  road. 
■  They  came  presently  to  the  villa  occupied  by  the  Colonel, 
who,  much  amused  by  their  whim,  gave  them  leave.     And 
furnished  with  his  permit,  they  set  off  again. 

They  soon  passed  the  outposts,  and,  traversing  the  aban- 
( doned  village  of  Colombes,  found  themselves  at  the  edge  of 
ithe  little  vineyard  fields  that  run  down  to  the  Seine.  It 
•  was  about  eleven  o'clock. 

The  village  of  Argenteuil,  opposite,  seemed  quite  deserted. 

The  heights  of  Orgemont  and  Sannois  commanded  the  whole 

(countryside;   the   great  plain   stretching   to   Nanterre   was 

[  empty,  utterly  empty  of  all  but  its  naked  cherry-trees  and 

1  its  gray  earth. 

M.  Sauvage  jerking  his  thumb  towards  the  heights,  mut- 
Jtered:     "The  Prussians  are  up  there!**     And  disquietude 
stole  into  the  hearts  of  the  two  friends,  looking  at  that  de- 
serted land.    The  Prussians  !    They  had  never  seen  any,  but 
they   had   felt  them  there   for   months,   all   around   Paris, 
bringing  ruin  to  France,  bringing  famine;    pillaging,  mas- 
isacring;    invisible,  yet  invincible.     And  a  sort  of  supersti- 
i  tious   terror   went   surging   through   their   hatred    for   this 
unknown  and  victorious  race. 

Morissot  stammered:    "I  say — suppose  we  were  to  meet 
some?" 


230  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

With  that  Parisian  jocularity  which  nothing  can  repress 
M.  Sauvage  replied:    **We'd  give  'em  some  fried  fish." 

None  the  less,  daunted  by  the  silence  all  round,  they 
hesitated  to  go  further. 

At  last  M.  Sauvage  took  the  plunge.  **Come  on !  But  wc 
must  keep  our  eyes  skinned !" 

They  got  down  into  a  vineyard,  where  they  crept  along,  all 
eyes  and  ears,  bent  double,  taking  cover  behind  every  bush. 

There  was  still  a  strip  of  open  ground  to  cross  before  they 
could  get  to  the  riverside ;  they  took  it  at  the  double,  and  the 
moment  they  reached  the  bank  plumped  down  amongst  some 
osiers. 

Morissot  glued  his  ear  to  the  ground  for  any  sound  of 
footsteps.    Nothing !    They  were  alone,  utterly  alone. 

They  plucked  up  spirit  again,  and  began  to  fish. 

In  front  of  them  the  Island  of  Marante,  uninhabited,  hid 
them  from  the  far  bank.  The  little  island  restaurant  was 
closed,  and  looked  as  if  it  had  been  abandoned  for  years. 

M.  Sauvage  caught  the  first  gudgeon,  Morissot  the  second, 
and  every  minute  they  kept  pulling  in  their  lines  with  a  little 
silvery  creature  wriggling  at  the  end.  Truly  a  miraculous 
draught  of  fishes ! 

They  placed  their  spoil  carefully  in  a  very  fine-meshed  net 
suspended  in  the  water  at  their  feet,  and  were  filled  by  the 
delicious  joy  that  visits  those  who  know  once  more  a  pleasure 
of  which  they  have  been  deprived  too  long. 

The  good  sun  warmed  their  shoulders;  they  heard  noth- 
ing, thought  of  nothing,  were  lost  to  the  world.    They  fished. 

But  suddenly  a  dull  boom,  which  seemed  to  come  from 
underground,  made  the  earth  tremble.  The  bombardment 
had  begun  again. 

Morissot  turned  his  head.  Away  above  the  bank  he  could 
see  on  the  left  the  great  silhouette  of  Mont  Valerien,  show- 
ing a  white  plume  high  up — an  ashy  puff  just  belched  forth. 


TWO  FRIENDS  231 

Then  a  second  spurt  of  smoke  shot  up  from  the  fort's 
summit^  and  some  seconds  afterwards  was  heard  the  roar 
of  the  gun. 

Then  more  and  more.  Every  minute  the  hill  shot  forth 
its  deadly  breathy  sighed  out  milky  vapors  that  rose  slowl}^ 
to  the  calm  heaven^  and  made  a  crown  of  cloud. 

M.  Sauvage  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "At  it  again!"  he 
said. 

Morissot^  who  was  anxiously  watching  the  bobbing  of  his 
floaty  was  seized  with  the  sudden  fury  of  a  man  of  peace 
against  these  maniacs  battering  at  each  other^  and  he  growled 
out:    "Idiots  I  call  them^  killing  each  other  like  that!" 

"Worse  than  the  beasts !"  said  M.  Sauvage.  And  Morissot, 
busy  with  a  fish^  added:  "It'll  always  be  like  that,  in  my 
opinion,  so  long  as  we  have  governments." 

M.  Sauvage  cut  him  short.  "The  Republic  would  never 
have  declared  war " 

Morissot  broke  in:  "Under  a  monarchy  you  get  war 
against  your  neighbors;  under  a  republic — war  amongst 
yourselves." 

And  they  began  tranquilly  discussing  and  unravelling 
momentous  political  problems  with  the  common  sense  of  two 
gentle,  narrow  creatures,  who  agreed  at  any  rate  on  this 
one  point,  that  Man  would  never  be  free. 

And  Mont  Valerien  thundered  without  ceasing,  shattering 
with  its  shells  the  homes  of  France,  pounding  out  life,  crush- 
ing human  beings,  putting  an  end  to  many  a  dream,  to  many 
a  longed-for  joy,  to  many  a  hoped-for  happiness;  opening 
everywhere,  too,  in  the  hearts  of  wives,  of  girls,  of  mothers, 
wounds  that  would  never  heal. 

"That's  life!"  declared  M.  Sauvage. 

"I  should  call  it  death,"  said  Morissot,  and  laughed. 

They  both  gave  a  sudden  start ;  there  was  surely  someone 
coming  up   behind   them.      Turning  their   eyes   they   saw. 


232 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


standing  close  to  their  very  elbows,  four  men,  four  big 
bearded  men,  dressed  in  a  sort  of  servant's  livery,  with  flat 
caps  on  their  heads,  pointing  rifles  at  them. 

The  rods  fell  from  their  hands  and  floated  off  down- 
stream. 

In  a  few  seconds,  they  were  seized,  bound,  thrown  into  a 
boat,  and  taken  over  to  the  island. 

Behind  the  house  that  they  had  thought  deserted  they 
perceived  some  twenty  German  soldiers. 

A  sort  of  hairy  giant,  smoking  a  great  porcelain  pipe,  and 
sitting  astride  of  a  chair,  said  in  excellent  French:  **Well, 
gentlemen,  what  luck  fishing.'*'* 

Whereupon  a  soldier  laid  at  his  officer's  feet  the  net  full 
of  fish,  which  he  had  carefully  brought  along. 

The  Prussian  smiled.  **I  see — not  bad.  But  we've  other 
fish  to  fry.  Now  listen  to  me,  and  keep  cool.  I  regard  you 
two  as  spies  sent  to  watch  me.  I  take  you,  and  I  shoot  you. 
You  were  pretending  to  fish,  the  better  to  disguise  your 
plans.  You've  fallen  into  my  hands ;  so  much  the  worse  for 
you.  That's  war.  But,  seeing  that  you  passed  through  your 
outposts,  you  must  assuredly  have  been  given  the  password 
to  get  back  again.    Give  it  me,  and  I'll  let  you  go.'* 

Livid,  side  by  side,  the  two  friends  were  silent,  but  their 
hands  kept  jerking  with  little  nervous  movements. 

The  officer  continued:  **No  one  will  ever  know;  it  will 
be  all  right;  you  can  go  home  quite  easy  in  your  minds.  If 
you  refuse,  it's  death — instant  death.     Choose." 

They  remained  motionless,  without  a  word. 

The  Prussian,  calm  as  ever,  stretched  out  his  hand  towards 
the  water,  and  said :  •  "Think !  In  five  minutes  you'll  be  at 
the  bottom  of  that  river.  In  five  minutes.  You've  got  fami- 
lies, I  suppose?'* 

Mont  Valerien  went  on  thundering.  The  two  fishermen 
stood  there  silent. 


TWO  FRIENDS  233 

The  German  gave  an  order  in  his  own  language.  Then 
he  moved  his  chair  so  as  not  to  be  too  near  his  prisoners. 
Twelve  men  came  forward,  took  their  stand  twenty  paces 
away,  and  grounded  arms. 

The  officer  said:  **I  give  you  one  minute;  not  a  second 
*more." 

And,  getting  up  abruptly,  he  approached  the  two  French- 
men, took  Morissot  by  the  arm,  and,  drawing  him  aside, 
whispered :  **Quick,  that  password.  Your  friend  need  never 
know.  It  will  only  look  as  if  I'd  relented.  Morissot  made 
no  answer. 

Then  the  Prussian  took  M.  Sauvage  apart,  and  asked  him 
the  same  question. 

M.  Sauvage  did  not  reply. 

Once  again  they  were  side  by  side.  The  officer  gave  a 
word  of  command.     The  soldiers  raised  their  rifles. 

At  that  moment  Morissot's  glance  lighted  on  the  net  full 
of  gudgeons  lying  on  the  grass  a  few  paces  from  him.  The 
sunshine  was  falling  on  that  glittering  heap  of  fishes,  still 
full  of  life.  His  spirit  sank.  In  spite  of  all  effort  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

"Adieu,  M.  Sauvage  I"  he  stammered  out. 

M.  Sauvage  answered:     "Adieu,  M.  Morissot." 

They  grasped  each  other's  hands,  shaken  from  head  to 
foot  by  a  trembling  that  they  could  not  control. 

"Fire!"  cried  the  officer. 

Twelve  shots  railg  out  as  one. 

M.  Sauvage  fell  forward  like  a  log.  Morissot,  the  taller, 
wavered,  spun  round,  and  came  down  across  his  comrade, 
his  face  upturned  to  the  sky ;  blood  spurted  from  his  tunic, 
torn  across  the  chest. 

The  German  gave  another  order.  His  men  dispersed. 
They  came  back  with  ropes  and  stones,  which  they  fastened 
to  the  feet  of  the  two  dead  friends,  whom  they  carried  to  the 


234  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

river   bank.     And  Mont  Valerien  never   ceased  rumbling, 
crowned  now  with  piled-up  clouds  of  smoke. 

Two  of  the  soldiers  took  Morissot  by  the  head  and  heels, 
two  others  laid  hold  of  M.  Sauvage.  The  bodies,  swung 
violently  to  and  fro,  were  hurled  forward,  described  a  curve, 
then  plunged  upright  into  the  river,  where  the  stones  dragged . 
them  down  feet  first. 

The  water  splashed  up,  bubbled,  wrinkled,  then  fell  calm 
again,  and  tiny  waves  rippled  out  towards  the  banks. 

A  few  bloodstains  floated  away  out  there. 

The  officer,  calm  as  ever,  said  quietly:  "It's  the  fish 
who've  got  the  luck  now !"  and  went  back  towards  the  house. 

But  suddenly  catching  sight  of  the  net  full  of  gudgeons 
on  the  grass,  he  took  it  up,  looked  it  over,  smiled,  and  called 
out:  "Wilhelm!" 

A  soldier  in  a  white  apron  came  running  up.  The  Prussian 
threw  him  the  spoil  of  the  two  dead  fishermen. 

"Get  these  little  affairs  fried  at  once  while  they're  still 
alive.     First-rate  like  that !" 

And  he  went  back  to  his  pipe. 


THE  HAND^ 

By  GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 

We  formed  a  circle  around  Monsieur  Bermutier,  Exam- 
ining Magistrate/  as  he  gave  his  version  of  the  mysterious 
affair  at  St.  Cloud.^  For  a  month  this  inexplicable  crime 
baffled  Paris.     No  one  understood  it. 

Monsieur  Bermutier^  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire- 
place, spoke,  summing  up  the  proof,  discussing  the  different 
opinions,  but  coming  to  no  conclusion  himself. 

Several  women  had  risen  to  come  closer  and  remained 
standing,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  clean-shaven  mouth  of  the 
magistrate  from  which  fell  the  grave  words.  They  shivered 
and  shuddered,  thrilled  by  their  curious  fear,  by  the  greedy 
and  insatiable  need  of  excitement  which  haunted  their  souls, 
torturing  them  like  hunger. 

One  of  them,  paler  than  the  others,  remarked,  during  a 
moment  of  silence: 

"It's  frightful.  It  verges  on  the  supernatural.  No  one 
will  ever  know.*' 

The  magistrate  turned  toward  her: 

"Yes,  madame,  it  is  probable  that  we  shall  never  know 
anything  about  it.  As  for  the  word  'supernatural*  which 
•you  just  used,  it  has  no  connection  here.  We  are  in  the 
presence  of  a  crime  very  well  known,  very  commonly  enacted, 
but  so  completely  enveloped  in  mystery  that  it  is  impossible 
to  disentangle  it  from  the  impenetrable  circumstances  which 

1.  Translated  by  Louis  LaCroix. 

2.  In  France,  an  officer  appointed  by  the  court  to  make  an  impar- 
tial investigation  of  a  crime. 

3.  A  town  some  miles  away  from  Paris. 

235 


236 


FRENCH  SHORT  ^TORIES 


surround  it.  But  I  had  to  follow  up  an  affair  once  where 
truly  there  seemed  to  be  an  element  of  the  fantastic.  It  had 
to  be  abandoned,  moreover,  through  lack  of  means  to  solve  it." 

Several  of  the  ladies  said  at  once,  speaking  so  quickly 
that  their  voices  sounded  as  one: 

"Oh !  tell  us  about  it.*' 

Monsieur  Bermutier  smiled  gravely,  as  an  Examining 
Magistrate  should  smile.    He  continued : 

"Don't  think,  though,  that  I  was  able,  even  for  a  moment, 
to  persuade  myself  to  believe  there  was  anything  super- 
human in  this  adventure.  I  believe  in  normal  causes  only. 
But  if,  instead  of  employing  the  word  'supernatural'  to 
express  that  which  we  do  not  understand,  we  use  simply 
the  word  'inexplicable,'  that  would  be  much  better.  At  all 
events,  in  the  affair  about  which  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  it  is 
particularly  the  surrounding  circumstances,  the  preparatory 
circumstances,  which  stirred  me.    In  fine,  here  are  the  facts : 

"I  was  the  Examining  Magistrate  at  Ajaccio,*  a  little 
white  village  nestling  picturesquely  on  the  edge  of  a  gulf, 
surrounded  on  all  sides  by  high  mountains. 

"My  special  business  there  was  an  investigation  of  the 
activities  connected  with  the  vendettas.^  One  finds  some  of 
these  feuds  superb,  some  dramatic  to  the  utmost,  some 
ferocious,  some  heroic.  We  find  there  the  most  striking  cases 
of  vengeance  imaginable,  hatreds  a  hundred  years  old, 
allayed  for  a  while,  but  never  extinct;  execrable  ruses; 
assassinations  which  take  on  the  proportions  of  massacres,  ' 
and  deeds  that  are  almost  glorious.  For  two  years  I  heard 
speak  of  nothing  but  the  price  of  blood,  of  that  terrible  Cor- 
sican  custom  which  seeks  to  revenge  every  injury  on  the 
person  of  him  who  committed  it,  on  his  descendants  and  his 

4.  The  capital  of  Corsica.  The  island  of  Corsica  is  a  province  of 
France. 

5.  A  vfndetta  is  the  mode  of  self-redress  by  which  fellow-kinsmen 
were  bound  to  take  vengeance  for  any  personal  injury  done  to  a  mem- 
ber of  their  clan  or  family. 


THE  HAND  237 

kin.     I  saw  old  men  butchered^  and  children,  together  with 
their  blood  relations.     My  head  was  full  of  such  stories. 

"One  day  I  learned  that  an  Englishman  had  just  leased 
for  several  years  a  tittle  villa  just  back  from  the  gulf.  He 
had  brought  with  him  a  French  domestic,  hired  as  he  passed 
through  Marseilles.® 

"Soon  every  one  busied  himself  about  this  strange  indi- 
vidual who  lived  all  by  himself,  coming  out  only  to  hunt 
and  to  fish.  He  spoke  to  no  one,  neVer  came  to  town,  and 
every  morning,  for  an  hour  or  two,  practiced  shooting  with 
the  pistol  and  the  rifle. 

"He  became  the  subject  of  queer  stories.  The  gossip 
ran  that  he  was  a  man  of  high  rank  who  had  fled  his  country 
for  political  reasons;  and  some  insisted  that  he  had  com- 
mitted a  terrible  crime  and  was  hiding.  Some  even  supplied 
the  horrible  details. 

"As  Examining  Magistrate  I  wanted  to  get  hold  of  some 
information  about  the  man,  but  it  was  impossible  to  learn 
anything.    He  went  by  the  name  of  Sir  John  Rowell. 

"So  I  contented  myself  with  merely  keeping  a  close 
watch;  but  in  truth,  nothing  seemed  to  justify  a  suspicion 
of  him. 

"However,  as  the  rumors  about  him  continued,  grew  more 
sweeping,  more  general,  I  resolved  to  try  to  see  this  stranger 
myself,  and  I  began  hunting  regularly  in  the  vicinity  of 
his  estate. 

"I  waited  a  long  time  for  an  opportunity.  It  presented 
itself,  finally,  in  the  form  of  a  partridge  which  I  shot  and 
killed  under  the  very  nose  of  the  Englishman.  My  dog 
fetched  it,  but  I  as  quickly  seized  the  fowl  and  went  to 
excuse  my  impropriety,  begging  Sir  John  Rowell  to  accept 
the  dead  bird. 

6.  The  largest  port  in  southern  France  and  the  point  of  departure 
for  Corsica. 


238  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"He  was  a  big  man  with  red  hair^  red  beard^  very  tall, 
well  proportioned,  a  sort  of  Hercules,  placid  and  polite.  He 
had  none  of  the  reputed  British  stiffness,  and  he  hastened 
to  thank  me  for  my  courtesy  in  a  French  strongly  marked 
with  an  English  accent.  In  the  course  of  a  month  we  had 
conversed  five  or  six  times. 

"Finally  one  evening,  as  I  passed  by  his  house,  I  noticed 
him  sitting  straddle  on  a  chair  in  his  garden,  smoking  a 
pipe.  I  greeted  him  and  he  invited  me  in  to  have  a  glass 
of  beer  with  him.     He  did  not  have  to  ask  me  twice. 

"He  received  me  with  all  the  meticulous  courtesy  of  the 
English,  spoke  in  glowing  terms  of  France  and  of  Corsica, 
declaring  that  he  greatly  liked  this  country  and  this  coast. 

"So  I  asked  him,  with  much  precaution,  under  the  sem- 
blance of  lively  interest,  several  questions  about  his  life 
and  his  experiences.  He  answered  me  without  embarrass- 
ment, telling  me  that  he  had  traveled  much  in  Africa,  in 
-  the  Indies,  in  America.    He  added  laughingly : 

"  *IVe  had  many  adventures,  oh !  oui/ 

"Then  I  resumed  the  conversation  about  hunting ;  he  gave 
me  the  most  curious  details  about  hunting  hippopotami, 
tigers,  elephants,  and  even  about  hunting  gorillas. 

"I  remarked: 

"  *Those  are  all  formidable  animals.' 

"He  smiled: 

"  *0h !  no.    The  most  formidable  is  man.' 

"He  burst  into  a  laugh,  the  hearty  laugh  of  a  big, 
contented  Englishman.     He  continued: 

"  'I've  hunted  men  a  great  deal,  too.' 

"And  he  spoke  of  weapons,  asking  me  into  the  house  to 
show  me  his  collection  of  guns  of  various  makes. 

"His  living  room  was  draped  in  black,  black  silk  embroid- 
ered with  gold.  Large  yellow  flowers  bedecked  the  somber 
cloth,  shining  like  fire. 


THE  HAND  239 

"He  explained: 

*'  'This  is  a  Japanese  tapestry/ 

"In  the  center  of  the  largest  panel  a  strange  thing  attracted 
my  eye.  On  a  square  of  red  velvet  a  black  object  dangled. 
I  approached  it;  it  was  a  hand,  the  hand  of  a  man.  Not 
the  hand  of  a  skeleton,  white  and  clean,  but  a  shriveled-up 
black  hand,  with  yellow  fingernails,  the  muscles  exposed, 
with  traces  of  dried  clots  of  blood  on  the  bones,  which  were 
cut  bluntly  as  by  the  stroke  of  an  ax,  about  the  middle  of 
the  forearm. 

"Around  the  wrist  a  heavy  iron  chain  was  riveted  and 
soldered,  attaching  this  ghastly  member  to  the  wall  by  a 
ring  strong  enough  to  hold  an  elephant  in  leash. 

"I  asked: 

"'What's  that?' 

"The  Englishman  answered  calmly: 

"  *That  was  my  most  formidable  enemy.  It  comes  from 
America.  It  was  cut  off  with  a  sword  and  the  skin  torn  off 
with  a  sharpened  stone  and  dried  in  the  sun  for  eight  days. 
Oh,  that  was  all  right  for  me,  that  was.' 

"I  touched  this  bit  of  human  debris,  which  must  have 
belonged  to  a  colossus.  The  fingers,  unusually  long,  were 
held  by  enormous  tendons  which  still  retained  strips  of 
skin  in  places.  That  hand  was  a  fearful  thing  to  look  at, 
skinned  like  that.  It  very  naturally  made  one  think  of  some 
savage  kind  of  vengeance. 

"I  said: 

"  *That  man  must  have  been  very  strong.' 

"The  Englishman  answered  calmly: 

"  *0h,  yes ;  but  I  was  stronger  than  he.  I  have  put  on 
that  chain  to  hold  him.' 

"I  thought  that  he  was  joking.     I  continued: 

"  'That  chain  is  quite  useless  now;  the  hand  will  not  run 
[  away.' 


240  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"Sir  John  Rowell  resumed  gravely: 

**  'It  has  constantly  threatened  to  run  away.     That  chain  1 
is  necessary/ 

"I  glanced  inquiringly  at  the  expression  on  his  face,  asking 
myself: 

'*  *Is  he  crazy,  or  just  a  morbid  joker?* 

"But  his  face  remained  impenetrable,  calm,  and  benevo- 
lent.    I  spoke  of  other  things,  and  admired  his  guns. 

"I  noticed,  too,  that  on  the  table  there  were  three  loaded 
pistols,  as  though  the  man  lived  in  constant  fear  of  being 
attacked. 

**I  visited  him  several  times  more.  Then  I  stopped  going. 
The  community  became  accustomed  to  his  presence;  he  was 
no  longer  the  special  object  of  attention  to  any  one. 

"A  whole  year  elapsed.  But  one  morning,  toward  the  end 
of  November,  my  servant  awoke  me  with  the  news  that  Sir 
John  Rowell  had  been  assassinated  during  the  night. 

"A  half  hour  later  I  entered  the  house  of  the  Englishman, 
together  with  the  president  of  the  police  board  and  the  chief 
of  police.  The  valet,  distracted  and  in  despair,  stood  outside^. 
the  door,  weeping.  At  first  I  suspected  him,  but  he  was 
innocent. 

*'The  guilty  party  has  never  been  found. 

*'Upon  entering  the  living  room  of  Sir  John  Rowell  the 
first  thing  which  met  my  eyes  was  the  corpse,  stretched 
on  its  back,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

"The  vest  was  torn,  a  detached  sleeve  hung  loose,  and 
everything  indicated  that  a  terrible  struggle  had  taken  place. 

"The  Englishman  had  been  strangled!  His  face,  black 
and  swollen,  was  dreadful  and  seemed  to  show  signs  of  a 
horrible  fright.  Between  his  teeth,  closed  tight,  he  held 
something;  and  in  his  neck  were  five  holes  which  seemed 
made  with  points  of  steel  and  were  covered  with  blood. 


THE  HAND  241 

"A  doctor  joined  us.  He  examined  for  a  long  time  the 
torn  flesh  where  the  fingers  had  plowed  through,  and  spoke 
these  strange  words: 

"  *It  looks  as  though  he  had  been  strangled  by  a  skeleton.' 

*'A  chill  crept  over  me,  and  I  cast  my  eyes  on  the  wall, 
at  the  spot  where  I  had  seen  that  horrible  hand  with  the 
skin  torn  off.  It  was  no  longer  there.  The  broken  chain 
only  dangled  there. 

**Then  I  stooped  over  the  corpse  and  noticed,  in  the  mouth, 
held  tightly,  one  of  the  fingers  of  that  vanished  hand,  cut, 
or  rather  sawed  off  by  the  teeth  at  the  second  joint. 

"Then  we  proceeded  with  the  investigation.  We  discov- 
ered nothing.  No  door  had  been  broken,  no  window,  no 
furniture.     The  two  watch-dogs  had  not  been  awakened. 

**Here,  in  a  few  words,  is  the  deposition  of  the  servant: 

"For  a  month  his  employer  had  seemed  troubled.  He 
had  received  many  letters,  all  of  which  he  burned  imme- 
diately. 

"Often,  taking  a  riding-whip,  in  a  fit  of  anger  which 
bordered  on  madness,  he  struck  with  fury  the  shriveled 
hand  fastened  to  the  wall,  and  detached,  no  one  knows  how, 
at  the  very  hour  of  the  crime. 

"He  went  to  bed  very  late  and  carefully  locked  himself  in. 
He  always  kept  weapons  at  hand.  Often,  at  night,  he  spoke 
out  loud  as  though  he  were  quarreling  with  some  one. 

"This  particular  night,  however,  he  had  made  no  noise, 
and  it  was  only  when  he  came  to  open  the  windows  that  the 
servant  found  Sir  John  Rowell  assassinated.  He  suspected 
no  one. 

"I  told  the  magistrates  and  the  officers  of  the  police  what  I 
knew  about  the  dead  man,  and  a  minute  inquiry  was  made 
on  the  whole  island.     No  clue  was  found. 

"Then,  one  night,  three  months  after  the  crime,  I  had  a 
fearful  nightmare.     It  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  the  hand. 


242  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

that  horrible  hand^  run  like  a  scorpion  or  a  spider  along  my 
curtains  and  my  walls.  Three  times  I  awoke^  three  times 
I  went  back  to  sleep,  three  times  I  saw  that  hideous  hand 
gallop  around  my  room,  moving  its  fingers  like  claws. 

*'The  next  day  it  was  brought  to  me,  having  been  found 
in  the  cemetery,  on  the  tomb  of  Sir  John  Rowell,  who  was 
buried  there;  for  we  had  been  unable  to  locate  his  family. 
The  index  finger  was  missing. 

"There,  ladies,  you  have  my  story.  I  know  nothing  more 
about  it.*' 

The  women  were  aghast,  pale,  trembling.  One  of  them 
exclaimed ; 

"But  that  is  not  a  denouement,  or  an  explanation.  We 
shall  not  sleep  if  you  do  not  tell  us  what  your  theory  is." 

The  magistrate  smiled  with  an  air  of  seriousness : 

"Oh,  of  course,  ladies.  I  shall  prevent  your  having  bad 
dreams.  I  think  it  was  simply  that  the  legitimate  owner 
of  the  hand  was  not  dead ;  that  he  came  back  to  get  it  with 
the  remaining  hand.  I  have  been  unable  to  understand, 
,though,  how  he  did  it.  In  that  respect  it  is  a  sort  of  ven- 
detta." 

One  of  the  women  remarked  slowly : 

"No,  it  could  hardly  have  been  that." 

The  Examining  Magistrate,  still  smiling,  concluded: 

"I  told  you  at  the  beginning  that  my  explanation  would 
not  satisfy  you." 


DAUDET 

(1840-1897) 

Alphonse  Daudet  was  born  in  Provence,  a  district  of 
southern  France,  in  1840.  Owing  to  family  misfortunes  his 
education  was  irregular.  While  yet  a  boy  he  went  to  Lyons 
and  later  to  Paris,  where  he  eventually  received  his  first 
recognition  as  a  writer.  He  was  for  many  years  connected 
with  Le  Figaro,  one  of  the  most  influential  journals  of  Paris. 
This  association  gave  Daudet's  charming  personality  an 
opportunity  to  manifest  itself,  and  he  became  a  member  of 
the  select  circle  of  literary  men  which  included  Flaubert, 
Zola,  the  Goncourt  brothers,  and  others. 

However,  in  spite  of  the  many  years  in  Paris,  Daudet 
never  outgrew  his  love  for  his  native  Provence,  and  much  of 
his  characteristic  work  deals  with  the  life  and  people  of  a 
part  of  France  which  has  lingered  gently  within  th'e  border- 
land of  romance.  Fortunately  Daudet  did  not  allow  this 
feeling  to  carry  him  over  into  mere  rhapsody.  He  saw  the 
humorous  side  of  his  fellow  Provencals,  and  at  times  he 
even  burlesques  them.  This  is  true  of  his  best  known  long 
story,  Tartarin  de  Tarascon,  one  of  the  very  best  pieces  of 
humor  that  France  has  produced. 

Daudet  was  a  realist,  like  nearly  all  of  his  contemporaries, 
but  his  realism  was  tempered  by  a  highly  colored  imagina- 
tion and  a  nature  that  was  essentially  emotional.  His  real- 
ism shows  perhaps  best  in  the  vivid  local  color  with  which 
he  surrounds  many  of  his  plots.  This  he  achieved  by  ac- 
tually putting  himself  into  the  environment  which  he  tried 
to  present.  For  instance,  in  order  to  write  The  Letters  from 
My  Mill — a  series  of  sketches  and  short  stories  about  that 
part  of  Provence  in  which  Nimes  is  located — he  lived  for  a 
time  in  an  old  windmill  near  that  city.  This  book  includes 
some  of  his  best  stories,  such  as  The  Death  of  the  Dauphin, 

243 


244  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

a  story  full  of  tears,  and  The  Pope's  Mule  and  The  Reverend 
Father  Gaucher' s  Elixir,  both  printed  in  this  volume^,  two 
of  his  most  effective  short  pieces  of  humor.  The  story 
mentioned  first  also  illustrates  Daudet's  fondness  for  por- 
traying child  life.  Owing  to  his  own  early  life  he  always 
becomes  intensely  emotional  when  writing  about  the  afflic- 
tions of  childhood.  Besides  a  number  of  short  stories  on  this 
theme,  at  least  two  of  his  longer  novels,  Le  Petit  Chose  and 
Jack,  are  elaborations  of  the  same  idea. 

Daudet  is  at  his  best  in  the  short  story,  and  his  stories  are 
among  the  finest  that  were  produced  in  a  language  and  a 
literature  second  to  none  in  this  particular  form  of  fiction. 
He  always  got  his  material  from  his  immediate  surround- 
ings, so  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  Franco-Prussian  War 
entered  into  his  work,  as  it  did  into  that  of  so  many  of 
his  contemporaries.  He  was  in  Paris  at  the  time  of  the 
siege,  and  of  this  he  tells  with  remarkable  vividness  and 
striking  originality  in  the  Siege  of  Berlin,  Like  all  his 
countrymen,  he  was  profoundly  touched  by  the  fate  of 
Alsace,  and  no  native  Alsatian  could  exceed  Daudet  in  the 
feeling  of  despair  which  he  expresses  in  The  Last  Lesson, 
one  of  the  stories  selected  for  this  volume. 

Daudet  spent  most  of  his  life  in  Paris,  where  he  died  on 
December  16,  1897. 


THE   LAST   LESSON  1 

By  ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

That  morning  it  was  quite  late  before  I  started  for 
school^  and  I  was  terribly  afraid  I  should  be  scolded, 
for  Monsieur  Hamel  had  told  us  that  he  would  question  us 
upon  participles,  and  I  did  not  know  the  first  thing  about 
them.  For  a  moment  I  thought  of  escaping  from  school  and 
roving  through  the  fields. 

The  day  was  so  warm,  so  clear!  The  blackbirds  were 
whistling  on  the  outskirts  of  the  woods.  In  Rippert 
Meadow,  behind  the  sawmill,  the  Prussians  were  drilling. 
All  these  things  were  far  more  attractive  to  me  than  the 
rule  for  the  use  of  participles.  But  I  mustered  up  strength 
to  resist  temptation,  and  hurried  on  to  school. 

As  I  reached  the  town  hall,  I  saw  a  group  of  people; 
they  loitered  before  the  little  grating,  reading  the  placards 
posted  upon  it.  For  two  years  every  bit  of  bad  news  had 
been  anounced  to  us  from  that  grating.  There  we  read  what 
battles  had  been  lost,  what  requisitions  made;  there  we 
learned  what  orders  had  issued  from  headquarters.  And 
though  I  did  not  pause  with  the  rest,  I  wondered  to  myself, 
"What  can  be  the  matter  now?" 

As  I  ran  across  the  square,  Wachter,  the  blacksmith,  who, 
in  company  with  his  apprentice,  was  absorbed  in  reading  the 
notice,  exclaimed, — 

"Not  so  fast,  child!    You  will  reach  school  soon  enough!" 

I  believed  he  was  making  game  of  me,  and  I  was  quite 
out  of  breath  when  I  entered  Monsieur  HameFs  small 
domain. 

1.  Translated  by  Marian  Mclntyre.  Copyright,  1899,  by  Little, 
Brown  and  Company. 

245 


246 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


Now,  at  the  beginning  of  the  session  there  was  usually 
such  an  uproar  that  it  could  be  heard  as  far  as  the  street. 
Desks  were  opened  and  shut,  lessons  recited  at  the  top  of  our 
voices,  all  shouting  together,  each  of  us  stopping  his  ears 
that  he  might  hear  better.  Then  the  master's  big  ruler  would 
descend  upon  his  desk,  and  he  would  say, — 

**Silence !" 

I  counted  upon  making  my  entrance  in  the  midst  of  the 
usual  babel  and  reaching  my  seat  unobserved,  but  upon 
this  particular  morning  all  was  hushed.  Sabbath  stillness 
reigned.  Through  the  open  window  I  could  see  that  my 
comrades  had  already  taken  their  seats;  I  could  see  Mon- 
sieur Hamel  himself,  passing  back  and  forth,  his  formidable 
iron  ruler  under  his  arm. 

I  must  open  that  door.  I  must  enter  in  the  midst  of  that 
deep  silence.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  grew  red  in  the 
face,  and  terror  seized  me. 

But,  strangely  enough,  as  Monsieur  Hamel  scrutinized 
me,  there  was  no  anger  in  his  gaze.     He  said  very  gently, — 

"Take  your  seat  quickly,  my  little  Franz.  We  were  going 
to  begin  without  you." 

I  climbed  over  the  bench,  and  seated  myself..  But  when 
I  had  recovered  a  little  from  my  fright,  I  noticed  that  our 
master  had  donned  his  beautiful  green  frock-coat,  his  finest 
frilled  shirt,  and  his  embroidered  black  silk  calotte,^  which 
he  wore  only  on  inspection  days,  or  upon  those  occasions 
when  prizes  were  distributed.  Moreover,  an  extraordinary 
solemnity  had  taken  possession  of  my  classmates.  But  the 
greatest  surprise  of  all  came  when  my  eye  fell  upon  the 
benches  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  Usually  they  were 
empty,  but  upon  this  morning  the  villagers  were  seated 
there,  solemn  as  ourselves.  There  sat  old  Hauser,  with  his 
three-cornered  hat,  there  sat  the  venerable  mayor,  the  aged 

2.  The  skull-cap  worn  by  teachers. 


THE  LAST  LESSON  247 

carrier^  and  other  personages  of  importance.  All  of  our 
visitors  seemed  sad,  and  Hauser  had  brought  with  him  an 
old  primer,  chewed  at  the  edges.  It  lay  wide  open  upon 
his  knees,  his  big  spectacles  reposing  upon  the  page. 

While  I  was  wondering  at  all  these  things,  Monsieur 
Hamel  had  taken  his  seat,  and  in  the  same  grave  and  gentle 
tone  in  which  he  had  greeted  me,  he  said  to  us, — 

"My  children,  this  is  the  last  day  I  shall  teach  you.  The 
order  has  come  from  Berlin  that  henceforth  in  the  schools 
of  Alsace  and  Lorraine^  all  instruction  shall  be  given  in 
the  German  tongue  only.  Your  new  master  will  arrive 
tomorrow.  Today  you  hear  the  last  lesson  you  will  receive 
in  French,  and  I  beg  you  will  be  most  attentive." 

My  *'last'*  French  lesson!  And  I  scarcely  knew  how  to 
write !  Now  I  should  never  learn.  My  education  must  be 
cut  short.  How  I  grudged  at  that  moment  every  minute  I 
had  lost,  every  lesson  I  had  missed  for  the  sake  of  hunting 
birds'  nests  or  making  slides  upon  the  Saar!^  And  those 
books  which  a  moment  before  were  so  dry  and  dull,  so  heavy 
to  carry,  my  grammar,  my  Bible-history,  seemed  now  to 
wear  the  faces  of  old  friends,  whom  I  could  not  bear  to  bid 
farewell.  It  was  with  them  as  with  Monsieur  Hamel,  the 
thought  that  he  was  about  to  leave,  that  I  should  see  him 
no  more,  made  me  forget  all  the  blows  of  his  ruler,  and  the 
many  punishments  I  had  received. 

Poor  man!  It  was  in  honor  of  that  last  session  that  he 
was  arrayed  in  his  finest  Sunday  garb,  and  now  I  began  to 
understand  why  the  villagers  had  gathered  at  the  back  of 
the  class-room.  Their  presence  at  such  a  moment  seemed 
to  express  regret  that  they  had  not  visited  that  school-room 
of tener ;  it  was  their  way  of  telling  our  master  they  thanked 

3.  Two  French  provinces  taken  from  France  by  the  Germans  after 
the  war  of  1870. 

4.  A  river  in  Alsace-Lorraine. 


248  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

# 
him  for  forty  years  of  faithful  service,  and  desired  to  pay 
their  respects  to  the  land  whose  empire  was  departing. 

I  was  busied  with  these  reflections  when  I  heard  my 
name  called.  It  was  now  my  turn  to  recite.  Ah!  what 
would  I  not  have  given  then,  had  I  been  able  to  repeat  from 
beginning  to  end  that  famous  rule  for  the  use  of  participles 
loudly,  distinctly,  and  without  a  single  mistake;  but  I 
became  entangled  in  the  first  few  words,  and  remained 
standing  at  my  seat,  swinging  from  side  to  side,  my  heart 
swelling.  I  dared  not  raise  my  head.  Monsieur  Hamel 
was  addressing  me. 

**I  shall  not  chide  thee,  my  little  Franz ;  thy  punishment 
will  be  great  enough.  So  it  is !  We  say  to  ourselves  each 
day,  *Bah!  I  have  time  enough.  I  will  learn  tomorrow.* 
And  now  see  what  results.  Ah,  it  has  ever  been  the  greatest 
misfortune  of  our  Alsace  that  she  was  willing  to  put  off 
learning  till  Tomorrow!  And  now  these  foreigners  can 
say  to  us,  and  justly,  *What!  you  profess  to  be  Frenchmen, 
and  can  neither  speak  nor  write  your  own  language?'  And 
in  all  this,  my  poor  Franz,  you  are  not  the  chief  culprit. 
Each  of  us  has  something  to  reproach  himself  with. 

"Your  parents  have  not  shown  enough  anxiety  about 
having  you  educated.  They  preferred  to  see  you  spinnings 
or  tilling  the  soil,  since  that  brought  them  in  a  few  more 
sous.^  And  have  I  nothing  with  which  to  reproach  myself  } 
Did  I  not  often  send  you  to  water  my  garden  when  you 
should  have  been  at  your  tasks?  And  if  I  wished  to  go 
trout-fishing,  was  my  conscience  in  the  least  disturbed  when 
I  gave  you  a  holiday?" 

One  topic  leading  to  another.  Monsieur  Hamel  began  to 
speak  of  the  French  language,  saying  it  was  the  strongest, 
clearest,  most  beautiful  language  in  the  world,  which  we 
must  keep  as  our  heritage,  never  allowing  it  to  be  forgotten, 

5.  A  sou  is  worth  one  cent. 


I 
THE  LAST  LESSON  249 

telling  us  that  when  a  nation  has  become  enslaved,  she  holds 
the  key  which  shall  unlock  her  prison  as  long  as  she  pre- 
serves her  native  tongue. 

Then  he  took  a  grammar,  and  read  our  lesson  to  us,  and 
I  was  amazed  to  see  how  well  I  understood.  Everything 
he  said  seemed  so  very  simple,  so  easy!  I  had  never,  I 
believe,  listened  to  any  one  as  I  listened  to  him  at  that 
moment,  and  never  before  had  he  shown  so  much  patience 
in  his  explanations.  It  really  seemed  as  if  the  poor  man, 
anxious  to  impart  everything  he  knew  before  he  took  leave 
of  us,  desired  to  strike  a  single  blow  that  might  drive  all 
his  knowledge  into  our  heads  at  once. 

The  lesson  was  followed  by  writing.  For  this  occasion 
Monsieur  Hamel  had  prepared  some  copies  that  were  en- 
tirely new,  and  upon  these  were  written  in  a  beautiful  round 
hand,  "France,  Alsace  1  France,  Alsace!" 

These  words  were  as  inspiring  as  the  sight  of  the  tiny 
flags  attached  to  the  rod  of  our  desks.  It  was  good  to  see 
how  each  one  applied  himself,  and  how  silent  it  was !  Not 
a  sound  save  the  scratching  of  pens  as  they  touched  our 
papers.  Once,  indeed,  some  cockchafers  entered  the  room, 
but  no  one  paid  the  least  attention  to  them,  not  even  thq 
tiniest  pupil;  for  the  youngest  were  absorbed  in  tracing 
their  straight  strokes  as  earnestly  and  conscientiously  as  if 
these  too  were  written  in  French !  On  the  roof  of  the  school- 
house  the  pigeons  were  cooing  softly,  and  I  thought  to 
myself  as  I  listened,  **And  must  they  also  be  compelled  to 
sing  in  German?" 

From  time  to  time,  looking  up  from,  my  page,  I  saw 
Monsieur  Hamel,  motionless  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  riveted 
upon  each  object  about  him,  as  if  he  desired  to  ^x  in  his 
mind,  and  forever,  every  detail  of  his  little  school.  Remem- 
ber that  for  forty  years  he  had  been  constantly  at  his  post, 
in  that  very  school-room,  facing  the  same  playground.   Little 


250  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

had  changed.  The  desks  and  benches  were  polished  and 
worn,  through  long  use ;  the  walnut-trees  in  the  playground 
had  grown  taller;  and  the  hop-vine  he  himself  had  planted 
curled  its  tendrils  about  the  windows^  running  even  to  the 
roof.  What  anguish  must  have  filled  the  poor  man's  hearty 
as  he  thought  of  leaving  all  these  things^  and  heard  his 
sister  moving  to  and  fro  in  the  room  overhead,  busied  in 
fastening  their  trunks!  For  on  the  morrow  they  were  to 
leave  the  country,  never  to  return.  Nevertheless,  his  courage 
did  not  falter ;  not  a  single  lesson  was  omitted.  After  writ- 
ing came  history,  and  then  the  little  ones  sang  their  ^'Ba,  Be, 
Bi,  Bo,  Bu,"  together.  Old  Hauser,  at  the  back  of  the  room, 
had  put  on  his  spectacles,  and,  holding  his  primer  in  both 
hands,  was  spelling  out  the  letters  with  the  little  ones.  He 
too  was  absorbed  in  his  task;  his  voice  trembled  with  emo- 
tion, and  it  was  so  comical  to  hear  him  that  we  all  wanted 
to  laugh  and  to  cry  at  the  same  moment.  Ah !  never  shall 
I  forget  that  last  lesson ! 

Suddenly  the  church  clock  struck  twelve,  and  then  the 
Angelus^  was  heard. 

At  the  same  moment,  a  trumpet-blast  under  our  window 
announced  that  the  Prussians  were  returning  from  drill. 
Monsieur  Hamel  rose  in  his  chair.  He  was  very  pale,  but 
never  before  had  he  seemed  to  me  so  tall  as  at  that  moment. 

"My  friends — "  he  said,  "my  friends — I — I — '* 

But  something  choked  him.     He  could  not  finish. 

Then  he  took  a  piece  of  chalk,  and,  grasping  it  with  all 
his  strength,  wrote  in  his  largest  hand, — 
"Vive  la  France  V* 

He  remained  standing  at  the  blackboard,  his  head  resting 
against  the  wall.  He  did  not  speak  again,  but  a  motion  of 
his  hand  said  to  us, — 

"That  is  all.   You  are  dismissed.'* 

6.  The  Angelus  is  a  Catholic  devotional  exercise  repeated  at  morn- 
ing, noon,  and  sunset  upon  the  ringing  of  the  church  bell. 


THE  POPE^S  MULE^ 

By  ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Of  all  the  pretty  sayings,  proverbs,  adages,  with  which 
our  Proven9al  peasantry  decorate  their  discourse,  I  know  of 
none  more  picturesque,  or  more  peculiar  than  this: — for 
fifteen  leagues  around  my  mill,^  when  they  speak  of  a  spite- 
ful and  vindictive  man,  they  say,  "That  fellow !  distrust  him ! 
he's  like  the  Pope's  mule  who  kept  her  kick  for  seven  years." 

I  tried  for  a  long  time  to  find  out  whence  that  proverb 
came,  what  that  Pope's  mule  was,  and  why  she  kept  her  kick 
for  seven  years.  No  one  could  give  me  any  information  on 
the  subject,  not  even  Francet  Mamai,  my  old  fife-player, 
though  he  knows  his  Proven9al  legends  to  the  tips  of  his 
fingers.  Francet  thought,  as  I  did,  that  there  must  be  some 
ancient  chronicle  of  Avignon^  behind  it,  but  he  had  never 
heard  of  it  otherwise  than  as  a  proverb. 

"You  won't  find  it  anywhere  except  in  the  Grasshoppers' 
Library,"  said  the  old  man,  laughing. 

This  idea  struck  me  as  a  good  one ;  and  as  the  Grasshop- 
pers' Library  is  close  at  my  door,  I  shut  myself  up  there  for 
over  a  week. 

It  is  a  wonderful  library,  admirably  stocked,  open  to  poets 
night  and  day,  and  served  by  little  librarians*  with  cymbals 
who  make  music  for  you  all  the  time.  I  spent  some  delightful 
days  there,  and  after  a  week  of  researches  (on  my  back)  I 

1.  Translated  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley.  Copyright,  1899, 
by  Little,  Brown   and  Company. 

2.  Daudet  lived  in  an  old  windmill  near  Nlmes  when  he  wrote 
this   story.  ^  ^  ,  ^         ^^  ,.      . 

3.  A  city  in  southern  France.  In  the  14th  century  the  popes  lived 
in  Avignon  after  they  had  been  exiled  from  Italy. 

4.  Locusts. 

251 


252  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

ended  by  discovering  what  I  wanted,  namely,  the  story  of 
the  mule  with  that  famous  kick  which  she  kept  for  seven 
years.  The  tale  is  pretty,  though  rather  naive,  and  I  shall 
try  to  tell  it  to  you  just  as  I  read  it  yesterday  in  a  manuscript 
colored  by  the  weather,  smelling  of  good  dried  lavender  and 
tied  with  the  Virgin's  threads — as  they  call  gossamer  in  these 
parts. 

Whoso  did  not  see  Avignon  in  the  days  of  the  Popes  has 
seen  nothing.  For  gayety,  life,  animation,  the  excitement  of 
festivals,  never  was  a  town  like  it.  From  morning  till  night 
there  was  nothing  but  processions,  pilgrimages,  streets 
strewn  with  flowers,  draped  with  tapestries,  cardinals  arriv- 
ing by  the  Rhone,  banners  in  the  breeze,  galleys  dressed  in 
flags,  the  Pope's  soldiers  chanting  Latin  on  the  squares,  and 
the  tinkling  rattle  of  the  begging  friars;  while  from  garret 
to  cellar  of  houses  that  pressed,  humming,  round  the  great 
papal  palace  like  bees  around  their  hive,  came  the  tick-tack 
of  lace-looms,  the  to-and-fro  of  shuttles  weaving  the  gold 
thread  of  chasubles,  the  tap-tap  of  the  goldsmith's  chasing- 
tools  tapping  on  the  chalices,  the  tuning  of  choir-instruments 
at  the  lute-makers,  the  songs  of  the  spinners  at  their  work; 
and  above  all  this  rose  the  sound  of  bells,  and  always  the  echo 
of  certain  tambourines  coming  from  away  down  there  on  the 
bridge  of  Avignon.  Because,  with  us,  when  the  people  are 
happy  they  must  dance — they  must  dance;  and  as  in  those 
days  the  streets  were  too  narrow  for  the  farandole,^  fifes  and 
tambourines  posted  themselves  on  the  bridge  of  Avignon  in 
the  fresh  breeze  of  the  Rhone,  and  day  and  night  folks 
danced,  they  danced.  Ah !  the  happy  times  !  the  happy  town ! 
Halberds  that  did  not  wound,  prisons  where  the  wine  was  put 
to  cool;  no  hunger,  no  war.     That's  how  the  Popes  of  the 

5.  A  Provengal  dance  in  which  the  dancers  were  arranged  in  a 
long  line. 


THE  POPE'S  MULE  253 

Comtat^  governed  their  people ;  and  that's  why  their  people 
so  deeply  regretted  them. 

There  was  one  Pope  especially^  a  good  old  man  called 
Boniface.  Ah !  that  one^  many  were  the  tears  shed  in  Avignon 
when  he  was  dead.  He  was  so  amiable^  so  affable  a  prince ! 
He  laughed  so  merrily  on  the  back  of  his  mule !  And  when 
you  passed  him^  were  you  only  a  poor  little  gatherer  of  mad- 
der-roots^ or  the  grand  provost  of  the  town^  he  gave  you  his 
benediction  so  politely !  A  real  Pope  of  Yvetot,  but  a  Yvetot 
of  Provence,  with  something  delicate  in  his  laugh,  a  sprig  of 
sweet  marjoram  in  his  cardinal's  cap,  and  never  a  Jeanneton, 
— the  only  Jeanneton  he  was  ever  known  to  have,  that  good 
Father,  was  his  vineyard,  his  own  little  vineyard  which  he 
planted  himself,  three  leagues  from  Avignon,  among  the 
myrtles  of  Chateau-Neuf. 

Every  Sunday,  after  vespers,  the  good  man  paid  court 
to  his  vineyard;  and  when  he  was  up  there,  sitting  in  the 
blessed  sun,  his  mule  near  him,  his  cardinals  stretched  out 
beneath  the  grapevines,  he  would  order  a  flask  of  the  wine 
of  his  own  growth  to  be  opened, — that  beautiful  wine,  the 
color  of  rubies,  which  is  now  called  the  Chdteau-Neuf  des 
Papes,  and  he  sipped  it  with  sips,  gazing  at  his  vineyard 
tenderly.  Then,  the  flask  empty,  the  day  fading,  he  rode 
back  joyously  to  town,  the  Chapter  following;  and  when  he 
crossed  the  bridge  of  Avignon  through  the  tambourines  and 
the  farandoles,  his  mule,  set  going  by  the  music,  paced  along 
in  a  skipping  little  amble,  while  he  himself  beat  time  to  the 
dance  with  his  cap,  which  greatly  scandalized  the  cardinals 
but  made  the  people  say:  "Ah!  the  good  prince!  Ah!  the 
kind  Pope!" 

What  the  Pope  loved  best  in  the  world,  next  to  his  vine- 
yard of  Chateau-Neuf,  was  his  mule.  The  good  man  doted 
on  that  animal.    Every  evening  before  he  went  to  bed  he  went 

6.  Another   name   for   the   district   including  Avignon. 


254  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

to  see  if  the  stable  was  locked^  if  nothing  was  lacking  in  the 
manger ;  and  never  did  he  rise  from  the  table  without  seeing 
with  his  own  eyes  the  preparation  of  a  great  bowl  of  wine 
in  the  French  fashion  with  sugar  and  spice^  which  he  took 
to  his  mule  himself^  in  spite  of  the  remarks  of  his  cardinals. 
It  must  be  said  that  the  mule  was  worth  the  trouble.  She 
was  a  handsome  black  mule,  with  reddish  points,  sure-footed, 
hide  shining,  back  broad  and  full,  carrying  proudly  her  thin 
little  head  decked  out  with  pompons  and  ribbons,  silver  bells 
and  streamers ;  gentle  as  an  angel  withal,  innocent  eyes,  and 
two  long  ears,  always  shaking,  which  gave  her  the  look  of  a 
downright  good  fellow.  All  Avignon  respected  her,  and 
when  she  passed  through  the  streets  there  were  no  civilities 
that  the  people  did  not  pay  her;  for  every  one  knew  there 
was  no  better  way  to  stand  well  at  court,  and  that  the  Pope's 
mule,  for  all  her  innocent  look,  had  led  more  than  one  man  to 
fortune, — witness  Tistet  Vedene  and  his  amazing  adventure. 

This  Tistet  Vedene  was,  in  point  of  fact,  an  impudent 
young  rogue,  whom  his  father,  Guy  Vedene,  the  goldsmith, 
had  been  forced  to  turn  out  of  his  house,  because  he  would 
not  work  and  only  debauched  the  apprentices.  For  six 
months  Tistet  dragged  his  jacket  through  all  the  gutters  of 
Avignon,  but  principally  those  near  the  papal  palace;  for 
the  rascal  had  a  notion  in  his  head  about  the  Pope's  mule, 
and  you  shall  now  see  what  mischief  was  in  it. 

One  day  when  his  Holiness  was  riding  all  alone  beneath 
the  ramparts,  behold  our  Tistet  approaching  him  and  say- 
ing, with  his  hands  clasped  in  admiration : 

"Ah!  mon  Dieu,  Holy  Father,  what  a  fine  mule  you  are 
riding!  Just  let  me  look  at  her.  Ah!  Pope,  what  a  mule! 
The  Emperor  of  Germany  hasn't  her  equal." 

And  he  stroked  her  and  spoke  to  her  softly  as  if  to  a 
pretty  young  lady : 

"Come  here,  my  treasure,  my  jewel,  my  pearl — " 


THE  POPE'S  MULE  255 

And  the  good  Pope,  quite  touched,  said  to  himself: 
"What  a  nice  young  fellow;  how  kind  he  is  to  my  mule!" 
And  the  next  day  what  do  you  think  happened?  Tistet 
Vedene  changed  his  yellow  jacket  for  a  handsome  lace  alb, 
a  purple  silk  hood,  shoes  with  buckles;  and  he  entered  the 
household  of  the  Pope,  where  no  one  had  ever  yet  been 
admitted  but  sons  of  nobles  and  nephews  of  cardiiials.  That's 
what  intriguing  means!  But  Tistet  was  not  satisfied  with 
that. 

Once  in  the  Pope's  service,  the  rascal  continued  the  game 
he  had  played  so  successfully.  Insolent  to  every  one,  he 
showed  attentions  and  kindness  to  none  but  the  mule  and  he 
was  always  to  be  met  with  in  the  courtyards  of  the  palace 
with  a  handful  of  oats,  or  a  bunch  of  clover,  shaking  its  pink 
blooms  at  the  window  of  the  Poly  Father  as  if  to  say: 
**Hein !  who's  that  for,  hey?"  Time  and  again  this  happened, 
so  that,  at  last,  the  good  Pope,  who  felt  himself  getting  old, 
left  to  Tistet  the  care  of  looking  after  the  stable  and  of 
carrying  to  the  mule  his  bowl  of  wine, — which  did  not  cause 
the  cardinals  to  laugh. 

Nor  the  mule  either.  For  now,  at  the  hour  her  wine  was 
due  she  beheld  half  a  dozen  little  pages  of  the  household 
slipping  hastily  into  the  hay  with  their  hoods  and  their 
laces;  and  then,  soon  after,  a  good  warm  smell  of  caramel 
and  spices  pervaded  the  stable,  and  Tistet  Vedene  appeared 
bearing  carefully  the  bowl  of  hot  wine.  Then  the  poor  ani- 
mal's martyrdom  began. 

That  fragrant  wine  she  loved,  which  kept  her  warm  and 
gave  her  wings,  they  had  the  cruelty  to  bring  it  into  her 
stall  and  let  her  smell  of  it;  then,  when  her  nostrils  were 
full  of  the  perfume,  away!  and  the  beautiful  rosy  liquor 
went  down  the  throats  of  those  young  scamps  !  And  not  only 
did  they  steal  her  wine,  but  they  were  like  devils,  those  young 
fellows,  after  they  had  drunk  it.  One  pulled  her  ears,  another 


256  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

her  tail.  Quinquet  jumped  on  her  back,  Beluguet  put  his  hat 
on  her  head,  and  not  one  of  the  rascals  ever  thought  that 
with  one  good  kick  of  her  hind-legs  the  worthy  animal  could 
send  them  all  to  the  polar  star,  and  farther  still  if  she  chose. 
But  no !  you  are  not  the  Pope's  mule  for  nothing — that  mule 
of  benedictions  and  plenary  indulgences.  The  lads  might 
do  what  tlJey  liked,  she  was  never  angry  with  them ;  it  was 
only  Tistet  Vedene  whom  she  hated.  He,  indeed!  when 
she  felt  him  behind  her,  her  hoofs  itched ;  and  reason  enough 
too.  That  good-for-nothing  Tistet  played  her  such  villainous 
tricks.  He  had  such  cruel  ideas  and  inventions  after  drink- 
ing. 

One  day  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  make  her  go  with  him 
into  the  belfry,  high  up,  very  high  up,  to  the  peak  of  the 
palace!  What  I  am  telling  you  is  no  tale;  two  hundred 
thousand  Provencal  men  and  women  say  it.  Imagine  the 
terror  of  that  unfortunate  mule,  when,  <after  turning  for  an 
hour,  blindly,  round  a  corkscrew  staircase  and  climbing  I 
don't  know  how  many  steps,  she  found  herself  all  of  a  sudden 
on  a  platform  blazing  with  light,  while  a  thousand  feet  below 
her  she  saw  a  diminutive  Avignon,  the  booths  in  the  market 
no  bigger  than  nuts,  the  Pope's  soldiers  moving  about  their 
barrack  like  little  red  ants,  and  down  there,  bright  as  a  silver 
thread,  a  microscopic  little  bridge  on  which  they  were 
dancing,  dancing.  Ah!  poor  beast!  what  a  panic!  At  the 
cry  she  gave,  all  the  windows  of  the  palace  shook. 

"What's  the  matter.'*  what  are  they  doing  to  my  mule?" 
cried  the  good  Pope,  rushing  out  upon  his  balcony. 

Tistet  Vedene  was  already  in  the  courtyard  pretending  to 
weep  and  tear  his  hair. 

"Ah !  great  Holy  Father,  what's  the  matter,  indeed !  Mon 
Dieu!  what  will  become  of  us  ?  There's  your  mule  gone  up  to 
the  belfry." 

"All  alone?" 


THE  POPE'S  MULE  257 

"Yes,  great  Holy  Father,  all  alone.  Look  up  there,  high 
up.  Don't  you  see  the  tips  of  her  ears  pointing  out — like 
two  swallows.^'' 

"Mercy !''  cried  the  poor  Pope,  raising  his  eyes.  "Why, 
she  must  have  gone  mad!  She'll  kill  herself!  Come  down, 
come  down,  you  luckless  thing!" 

Pecdirel'^  she  wanted  nothing  so  much  as  to  come  down; 
but  how?  which  way?  The  stairs?  not  to  be  thought  of; 
they  can  be  mounted,  those  things ;  but  as  for  going  down ! 
why,  they  are  enough  to  break  one's  legs  a  hundred  times. 
The  poor  mule  was  in  despair,  and  while  circling  round  and 
round  the  platform  with  her  big  eyes  full  of  vertigo  she  . 
thought  of  Tistet  Vedene. 

"Ah !  bandit,  if  I  only  escape — what  a  kick  tomorrow 
morning !" 

That  idea  of  a  kick  put  some  courage  into  her  heart;  with- 
out it  she  never  could  have  held  good.  .  ,  .  At  last,  they 
managed  to  save  her ;  but  't  was  quite  a  serious  affair.  They 
had  to  get  her  down  with  a  derrick,  ropes,  and  a  sling.  You 
can  fancy  what  humiliation  it  was  for  a  Pope's  mule  to  see 
herself  suspended  at  that  height,  her  four  hoofs  swimming 
in  the  void  like  a  cockchafer  hanging  to  a  string.  And  all 
Avignon  looking  at  her ! 

The  unfortunate  beast  could  not  sleep  at  night.  She 
fancied  she  was  still  turning  round  and  round  that  cursed 
platform  while  the  town  laughed  below,  and  again  she 
thought  of  the  infamous  Tistet  and  a  fine  kick  of  her  heels 
she  would  let  fly  at  him  next  day.  Ah !  friends,  what  a  kick ! 
the  dust  of  it  would  be  seen  as  far  as  Pamperigouste. 

Now,  while  this  notable  reception  was  being  made  ready 
for  him  in  the  Pope's  stable  what  do  you  think  Tistet  Vedene 
was  about?  He  was  descending  the  Rhone  on  a  papal  gal- 
ley, singing  as  he  went  his  way  to  the  Court  of  Naples  with  a 

7.  A  Provencal  expression  of  pity. 
9 


258  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

troop  of  young  nobles  whom  the  town  of  Avignon  sent  every 
year  to  Queen  Jeanne  to  practice  diplomacy  and  fine  man- 
ners. Tistet  Vedene  was  not  noble;  but  the  Pope  was  bent 
on  rewarding  him  for  the  care  he  had  given  to  his  mule,  and 
especially  for  the  activity  he  displayed  in  saving  her  from  her 
perilous  situation. 

The  mule  was  the  disappointed  party  on  the  morrow ! 

"Ah!  the  bandit!  he  suspected  something/'  she  thought, 
shaking  her  silver  bells.  "No  matter  for  that,  scoundrel; 
you'll  find  it  when  you  get  back,  that  kick;  I'll  keep  it  for 
you !" 

And  she  kept  it  for  him. 

After  Tistet's  departure  the  Pope's  mule  returned  to  her 
tranquil  way  of  life  and  her  usual  proceedings.  No  more 
Quinquet,  no  more  Beluguet  in  the  stable.  The  good  old  days 
of  the  spiced  wine  came  back,  and  with  them  good-humor, 
long  siestas,  and  the  little  gavotte  step  as  she  crossed  the 
bridge  of  Avignon.  Nevertheless,  since  her  adventure  a  cer- 
tain coldness  was  shown  to  her  in  the  town.  Whisperings 
were  heard  as  she  passed,  old  people  shook  their  heads,  chil- 
dren laughed  and  pointed  to  the  belfry.  The  good  Pope 
himself  no  longer  had  quite  the  same  confidence  in  his 
friend,  and  when  he  let  himself  go  into  a  nice  little  nap  on 
her  back  of  a  Sunday,  returning  from  his  vineyard,  he 
always  had  this  thought  latent  in  his  mind:  "What  if  I 
should  wake  up  there  on  the  platform !"  The  mule  felt  this, 
and  she  suffered,  but  said  nothing ;  only,  whenever  the  name 
of  Tistet  Vedene  was  uttered  in  her  hearing,  her  long  ears 
quivered,  and  she  struck  the  iron  of  her  shoes  hard  upon 
the  pavement  with  a  little  snort. 

Seven  years  went  by.  Then,  at  the  end  of  those  seven 
years,  Tistet  Vedene  returned  from  the  Court  of  Naples. 
His  time  was  not  yet  finished  over  there,  but  he  had  heard 
that  the  Pope's  head  mustard-bearer  had  died  suddenly  at 


THE  POPE'S  MULE  259 

Avignon^  and  as  the  place  seemed  a  good  one,  he  hurried 
back  in  haste  to  solicit  it. 

When  this  intriguing  Vedene  entered  the  palace  the  Holy. 
Father  did  not  recogize  him,  he  had  grown  so  tall  and  so 
stout.  It  must  also  be  said  that  the  good  Pope  himself  had 
grown  older,  and  could  not  see  much  without  spectacles. 

Tistet  was  not  abashed. 

"What,  great  Holy  Father !  you  don't  remember  me  ?  It  is 
I,  Tistet  Vedene." 

"Vedene.^'' 

"Why,  yes,  you  know  the  one  that  once  took  the  wine 
to  your  mule." 

"Ah!  yes,  yes, — I  remember.  A  good  little  fellow,  that 
Tistet  Vedene!  And  now,  what  do  you  want  of  me?" 

"Oh !  very  little,  great  Holy  Father.  I  came  to  ask — by 
the  bye,  have  you  still  got  her,  that  mule  of  yours?  Is  she 
well  ?  Ah !  good !  I  came  to  ask  you  for  the  place  of  the  chief 
mustard-bearer  who  lately  died." 

"Mustard-bearer,  you !  Why  you  are  too  young.  How  old 
are  you?" 

"Twenty-two,  illustrious  pontiff;  just  five  years  older  than 
your  mule.  Ah !  palm  of  God,  what  a  fine  beast  she  is !  If 
you  only  knew  how  I  love  her,  that  mule, — how  I  pined  for 
her  in  Italy!   Won't  you  let  me  see  her?" 

"Yes,  my  son,  you  shall  see  her,"  said  the  worthy  Pope, 
quite  touched.  "And  as  you  love  her  so  much  I  must  have 
you  live  near  her.  Therefore,  from  this  day  I  attach  you  to 
my  person  as  chief  mustard-bearer.  My  cardinals  will  cry 
out,  but  no  matter !  I'm  used  to  that.  Come  and  see  me 
tomorrow,  after  vespers,  and  you  shall  receive  the  insignia 
of  your  rank  in  presence  of  the  whole  Chapter,  and  then  I 
will  show  you  the  mule  and  you  shall  go  to  the  vineyard  with 
us,  hey !  hey  !" 

I  need  not  tell  you  if  Tistet  Vedene  was  content  when  he 


260  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

left  the  palace,  and  with  what  impatience  he  awaited  the 
ceremony  of  the  morrow.  And  yet  there  was  one  more  im- 
patient and  more  content  than  he;  it  was  the  mule.  After 
Vedene's  return,  until  vespers  on  the  following  day  that 
terrible  animal  never  ceased  to  stuff  herself  with  oats^  and 
practice  her  heels  on  the  wall  behind  her.  She,  too,  was  pre- 
paring for  the  ceremony. 

Well,  on  the  morrow,  when  vespers  were  said,  Tistet 
Vedene  made  his  entry  into  the  papal  court-yard.  All  the 
grand  clergy  were  there;  the  cardinals  in  their  red  robes, 
the  devil's  advocate^  in  black  velvet,  the  convent  abbots  in 
their  small  miters,  the  wardens  of  Saint-Agrico,  the  violet 
hoods  of  the  Pope's  household,  the  lower  clergy  also,  the 
Pope's  guard  in  full  uniform,  the  three  penitential  brother- 
hoods, the  hermits  of  Mont-Ventoux,  with  their  sullen  faces, 
and  the  little  clerk  who  walks  behind  them  with  a  bell,  the 
flagellating  friars  naked  to  the  waist,  the  ruddy  sextons  in 
judge's  gowns,  all,  all,  down  to  the  givers  of  holy  water, 
and  the  man  who  lights  and  him  who  puts  out  the  candles — 
not  one  missing.  Ah !  't  was  a  fine  ordination !  Bells,  fire- 
crackers, sunshine,  music,  and  always  those  frantic  tam- 
bourines leading  the  farandole  over  there,  on  the  bridge. 

When  Vedene  appeared  in  the  midst  of  this  great  assembly, 
his  fine  bearing  and  handsome  face  sent  a  murmur  of  admi- 
ration through  the  crowd.  He  was  truly  a  magnificent 
Proven9al;  but  of  the  blonde  type,  with  thick  hair  curling  at 
the  tips,  and  a  dainty  little  beard,  that  looked  like  slivers  of 
fine  metal  fallen  from  the  chisel  of  his  father,  the  goldsmith. 
The  rumor  ran  that  the  fingers  of  Queen  Jeanne  had  some- 
times played  in  the  curls  of  that  golden  beard ;  and,  in  truth, 
the  Sieur  de  Vedene  had  the  self-glorifying  air  and  the 
abstracted  look  of  men  that  queens  have  loved.  On  this 
day,  in  order  to  do  honor  to  his  native  town,  he  had  substi- 
8.  The  doctor  who  opposes  the  candidate  for  canonization. 


THE  POPE'S  MULE  261 

tuted  for  his  Neapolitan  clothes  a  tunic  edged  with  pink, 
a  la  Provengale,  and  in  his  hood  there  quivered  a  tall  feather 
of  the  Camargue^  ibis. 

As  soon  as  he  entered,  the  new  official  bowed  with  a  gallant 
air,  and  approached  the  high  portico  where  the  Pope  was 
waiting  to  give  him  the  insignias  of  his  rank,  namely,  a 
wooden  spoon  and  a  saifron  coat.  The  mule  was  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps,  saddled  and  bridled,  all  ready  to  go  to  the 
vineyard;  as  he  passed  beside  her,  Tistet  Vedene  smiled 
pleasantly,  and  stopped  to  give  her  a  friendly  pat  or  two  on 
the  back,  glancing,  as  he  did  so,  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye 
to  see  if  the  Pope  noticed  it.  The  position  was  just  right, — 
the  mule  let  fly  her  heels. 

"There,  take  it,  villain!  Seven  years  have  I  kept  it  for 
thee !" 

And  she  gave  him  so  terrible  a  kick, — so  terrible  that  even 
at  Pamperigouste  the  smoke  was  seen,  a  whirlwind  of  blonde 
dust,  in  which  flew  the  feather  of  an  ibis,  and  that  was  all 
that  remained  of  the  unfortunate  Tistet  Vedene! 

Mule  kicks  are  not  usually  so  destructive;  but  this  was  a 
papal  mule;  and  then,  just  think !  she  had  kept  it  for  him  for 
seven  years.  There  is  no  finer  example  of  ecclesiastical 
rancor. 

9.  An  island  in  tlie  Rhone,  near  its  moutli. 


THE  REVEREND  FATHER  GAUCHER'S  ELIXIRS 

BY   ALPHONSE   DAUDET 

"Drink  this^  neighbor^  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

And  drop  by  drop^  with  the  scrupulous  care  of  a  lapidary 
counting  pearls,  the-cMr^  of  Graveson  poured  me  out  two 
fingers  of  a  golden-green  liquor,  warm,  shimmering,  exquisite. 
It  warmed  my  stomach  like  sunshine. 

"That  is  Father  Gaucher's  elixir,  the  pHde  and  the  health 
of  our  Provence,"^  the  good  man  informed  me  triumphantly. 
"It  is  made  at  the  Premonstratensian^  convent,  a  couple  of 
leagues  from  your  mill.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  worth  all  their 
Chartreuses  .^*  .  .  .  And  if  you  only  knew  how  amus- 
ing the  story  of  this  elixir  is  !  Just  listen. 

Thereupon  quite  innocently,  thinking  no  evil,  in  the  pres- 
bytery dining-room  so  simple  and  quiet  with  its  little  pictures 
of  the  Stations  of  the  Cross  and  its  pretty  white  starched 
curtains  like  surplices,  the  abbe  began  to  tell  me  a  tale  just 
a  little  skeptical  and  irreverent,  after  the  manner  of  a  story 
from  Erasmus^  or  D'Assoucy.^ 

"Twenty  years  ago  the  Premonstratensians,  or  rather  the 
White  Fathers,  as  our  Provencals  call  them,  had  fallen  into 
great  poverty.  If  you  had  seen  their  house  in  those  days,  it 
would  have  made  your  heart  ache. 

"The  great  wall  and  St.  Pachomius'  tower  were  falling 
into  pieces.     Around  the  weed-grown  cloisters  the  columns 

1.  Translated   by  William   Metcalfe. 

2.  A  district   in   southern   France. 

3.  An  order   of   Augustinian   monks,  founded   in   1120. 

4.  A  liqueur   made   by   the   Carthusian   monks. 

5.  A  famous   Dutch   scholar,   1465-1536. 

6.  A  burlesque  poet  of  the  17th  century, 

262 


REV.  FATHER  GAUCHER'S  ELIXIR  263 

were  splitting,  the  stone  saints  were  crumbling  in  their 
niches.  Not  a  window  was  whole,  not  a  door  held  fast.  In 
the  garths^  and  chapels  the  Rhone  wind  blew  as  it  does  in  the 
Camargue,^  extinguishing  the  candles,  breaking  the  lead  of 
the  windows,  and  driving  the  holy  water  out  of  the  stoups. 
But  saddest  of  all  was  the  convent  steeple  as  silent  as  a 
deserted  dove-cote,  and  the  fathers,  for  want  of  means  to 
buy  themselves  a  bell,  forced  to  ring  to  matins  with  clappers 
of  almondwood!      ... 

"Poor  White  Fathers !  I  can  see  them  yet,  at  a  Corpus 
Christi^  procession,  filing  sadly  past  in  their  patched  man- 
tles, pale,  thin  from  their  diet  of  pumpkins  and  melons,  and 
behind  them  his  lordship  the  abbot,  who  hung  down  his  head 
as  he  went,  ashamed  at  letting  the  sun  see  his  crosier  with 
the  gilding  worn  off  and  his  white  woolen  miter  all  moth- 
eaten.  The  ladies  of  the  confraternity  wept  in  their  ranks 
for  pity  at  the  sight,  and  the  big  banner-carriers  grinned  and 
whispered  to  each  other,  as  they  pointed  at  the  poor  monks : 

"  'Starlings  go  thin  when  they  go  in  a  flock  !* 

**The  fact  is  that  the  unfortunate  White  Fathers  were 
themselves  reduced  to  debating  whether  they  would  not  be 
better  to  take  their  flight  across  the  world  and  seek  fresh 
pasture,  each  one  where  he  could. 

"So  then,  one  day  when  this  grave  question  was  being  dis- 
cussed in  the  chapter,  a  message  was  brought  to  the  prior 
that  Brother  Gaucher  asked  to  be  heard  before  the  council. 
You  must  understand  that  this  Brother  Gaucher 
was  the  convent  cowherd ;  that  is  to  say,  he  spent  his  days  in 
wandering  from  arch  to  arch  of  the  cloisters,  driving  two 
scraggy  cows,  which  sought  for  grass  in  the  crevices  of  the 
pavement.    Brought  up  until  his  twelfth  year  by  an  old  half- 

7.  Gardens. 

8.  An  island  in  the  Rhone,  near  its  mouth. 

9.  A  festival  of  the  Roman  Catholic  church,  Thursday  after  Trinity 
Sunday. 


264  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

witted  woman  in  Les  Baux^  called  Auntie  Begon^  and  then 
taken  in  by  the  monks,  the  unfortunate  cowherd  had  never 
been  able  to  learn  anything  except  to  drive  his  beasts  and  to 
repeat  his  paternoster,  and  even  that  he  said  in  Proven9al: 
for  he  had  a  thick  skull,  and  his  wits  were  about  as  sharp  as 
a  leaden  dagger.  A  fervent  Christian,  for  all  that,  though 
somewhat  visionary,  quite  comfortable  in  his  sackcloth,  and 
disciplining  himself  with  strong  conviction  and  such  arms! 

"When  they  saw  him  enter  the  chapter-house,  simple  and 
clownish,  and  salute  the  assembly  with  a  scrape,  prior, 
canons,  treasurer,  and  every  one  burst  out  laughing. 
That  was  always  the  effect  produced  everywhere  that  his 
honest,  grizzled  face  appeared,  with  its  goatee  and  its 
somewhat  vacuous  eyes;  so  Brother  Gaucher  was  not  put 
about. 

**  *Your  Reverences,'  he  said  in  a  good-natured  tone,  twist- 
ing at  his  olive-stone  beads,  *it's  a  true  saying  that  empty 
barrels  make  the  most  sound.  What  do  you  think  ?  By  put- 
ting my  poor  brains  to  steep,  though  they're  soft  enough 
already,  I  do  believe  I've  found  the  way  to  get  us  all  out 
of  our  difficulties. 

"  *It's  this  wayr  You  know  Auntie  Begon,  the  good  woman 
who  took  care  of  me  when  I  was  little — God  rest  her  soul,  the 
old  sinner !  She  used  to  sing  some  queer  songs  when  she  had 
drink — Well,  what  I  want  to  tell  you,  my  reverend  fathers, 
is  that  when  Auntie  Begon  was  alive  she  knew  the  herbs  that 
grow  in  the  mountains  as  well  and  better  than  any  old  hag  in 
Corsica.  And,  by  the  same  token,  in  her  latter  days  she  com- 
pounded an  incomparable  elixir  by  blending  five  or  six  sorts 
of  simples,  which  we  used  to  go  and  gather  together  in  the 
Alpilles.  That's  many  a  year  ago ;  but  I  think  that  with  the 
aid  of  Saint  Augustine,  and  the  permission  of  our  father 
abbot,  I  might — if  I  search  carefully — recall  the  composi- 


REV.  FATHER  GAUCHER'S  ELIXIR  265 

tion  of  that  mysterious  elixir.  Then  we  should  only  have  to 
put  it  into  bottles  and  sell  it  a  little  dear,  and  the  com- 
munity would  be  able  to  get  rich  at  its  ease,  like  our  brethren 
at  La  Trappe  and- the  Grande.     .     .     .' 

"He  had  not  time  to  finish.  The  prior  got  up  and  fell 
on  his  neck.  The  canons  took  him  by  the  hands.  The  treas- 
urer, even  more  deeply  moved  than  any  of  the  others, 
respectfully  kissed  the  frayed  hem  of  his  cowl.  .  .  .  Then 
each  returned  to  his  stall  to  deliberate ;  and  in  solemn  assem- 
bly the  chapter  decided  to  entrust  the  cows  to  Brother 
Thrasybulus,  in  order  that  Brother  Gaucher  might  fie  vote 
himself  entirely  to  the  preparation  of  his  elixir. 

"How  did  the  good  brother  manage  to  recall  Auntie 
Begon's  recipe.^  What  efforts,  what  vigils  did  it  cost  him.'^ 
History  does  not  relate.  But  this  much  is  certain,  at  the  end 
of  six  months  the  White  Fathers'  elixir  was  very  popular 
already.  In  all  the  Comtat,  in  all  the  Aries  district  not  a 
mas,  not  a  farm-house  but  had  at  the  backdoor  of  its  spence, 
among  the  bottles  of  wine  syrup  and  jars  of  dlives  picholines, 
a  little  brown  stone  flagon  sealed  with  the  arms  of  Provence, 
with  a  monk  in  ecstasy  on  a  silver  label.  Thanks  to  the 
vogue  of  its  elixir  the  house  of  the  Premonstratensians  got 
rich  very  rapidly.  St.  Pachomius'  tower  was  rebuilt.  The 
prior  got  a  new  miter,  the  church  grand  new  painted  win- 
dows; and  in  the  fine  tracery  of  the  steeple  a  whole  flight 
of  bells,  big  and  little,  alighted  one  fine  Easter  morning, 
chiming  and  pealing  in  full  swing. 

"As  for  Brother  Gaucher,  the  poor  lay  brother  whose 
rusticities  used  to  amuse  the  chapter  so,  he  was  never  men- 
tioned now  in  the  convent.  They  only  knew  the  Reverend 
Father  Gaucher,  a  man  of  brains  and  ability,  who  lived  quite 
isolated  from  the  petty,  multifarious  occupations  of  the  clois- 
ter, and  shut  himself  up  all  day  in  his  distillery,  while 


266  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

thirty  monks  scoured  the  mountains  in  search  of  his  fragrant 
herbs.  .  .  .  This  distillery^  to  which  no  one^  not  even 
the  prior,  had  the  right  of  entry,  was  an  old  abandoned 
chapel  at  the  bottom  of  the  canons'  garden.  The  good 
fathers'  simplicity  had  made  it  into  a  very  mysterious 
and  formidable  place;  and  any  bold  and  inquisitive  monk 
wlio  managed  to  reach  the  rose-window  above  the  door  by 
scrambling  up  the  climbing  vines  promptly  tumbled  down, 
terrified  at  his  peep  of  Father  Gaucher  with  his  necroman- 
cer's beard,  stooping  over  his  furnaces,  hydrometer  in  hand ; 
and  all  around  him  red  stone  retorts,  gigantic  alembics,  glass 
worms,  a  regular  weird  litter  that  glowed  as  if  enchanted 
in  the  red  gleam  of  the  windows.     .     .     . 

"At  close  of  day,  when  the  last  stroke  of  the  Angelus^^ 
sounded,  the  door  of  this  place  of  mystery  was  opened  dis- 
creetly, and  his  Reverence  betook  himself  to  the  church  for 
the  evening  office.  You  should  have  seen  the  reception  that 
he  got  as  he  traversed  the  monastery !  The  brethren  lined 
up  as  he  passed.     They  said: 

"*Hush!    .     .       He  has  the  secret !    . 

"The  treasurer  walked  behind  him  and  spoke  to  him, 
bowing  deferentially.  .  .  .  Amid  these  adulations  the 
Father  went  his  way,  wiping  his  brow,  his  three-cornered 
hat  with  its  broad  brim  on  the  back  of  his  head  like  an 
aureole,  looking  complacently  about  him  at  the  wide  courts 
planted  with  orange-trees,  the  blue  roofs  where  new  vanes 
were  turning,  and  in  the  dazzling  white  cloister,  amid  the 
neat  flower  columns,  the  canons  all  newly  rigged  out,  walking 
two  and  two  with  contented  faces. 

"  They  owe  all  that  to  me !'  his  Reverence  said  inwardly ; 
and,  as  often  as  he  did  so,  the  thought  made  his  pride  rise  in 
gusts. 

10.  The  Angelus  is  a  Catholic  devotional  exercise  repeated  at  morn- 
ing, noon,  and  sunset,  upon  the  ringing  of  the  church  bell. 


REV.  FATHER  GAUCHER'S  ELIXIR  267 

"The  poor  man  was  heavily  punished  for  it.  You'll  hear 
how  that  happened.    .     .     . 

"You  must  understand  that  one  evening,  whilst  the  office 
was  being  sung,  he  arrived  at  the  church  in  an  extraordinary- 
state  of  agitation:  red,  breathless,  his  cowl  awry,  and  so 
upset  that  in  taking  holy  water  he  dipped  his  sleeves  into  it 
up  to  the  elbows.  At  first  they  thought  that  it  was  excite- 
ment at  being  late;  but  when  they  saw  him  make  profound 
reverences  to  the  organ  and  the  galleries  instead  of  saluting 
the  high  altar,  rush  across  the  church  like  a  whirlwind,  wan- 
der about  in  the  choir  for  five  minutes  in  search  of  his  stall, 
then,  once  he  was  seated,  sway  right  and  left,  smiling 
benignly,  a  murmur  of  astonishment  ran  through  the  nave 
and  aisles.  They  chuckled  to  one  another  behind  their 
breviaries : 

"  ^Whatever  is  the  matter  with  our  Father  Gaucher  ?  .  .  . 
Whatever  is  the  matter  with  our  Father  Gaucher?' 

"Twice  the  prior  impatiently  let  his  crosier  fall  on  the 
pavement  to  command  silence.  .  .  .  Down  at  the  end 
of  the  choir  the  psalms  still  went  on ;  but  the  responses  lacked 
animation.     .     .     . 

"Suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  the  Ave  verum,^^  lo  and  be- 
hold. Father  Gaucher  flung  himself  back  in  his  stall,  and 
sang  out  at  the  top  of  his  voice : 

'^  'In  Paris  there  dwells  a  White  Father, 
Patatin,  patatan,  tarabin,  taraban  .  .  .^ 

"General  consternation.  Everyone  rose.  There  were 
cries  of: 

"  Take  him  away !     .     .     .    He's  possessed !' 

"The  canons  crossed  themselves.  His  Lordship  flourished 
his  crosier.  .  .  .  But  Father  Gaucher  saw  nothing,  heard 
nothing;  and  two  sturdy  monks  had  to  drag  him  out  by  the 

11.  The  first  words  of  a  part  of  the  Catholic  service,  "Hail  to.  Thee, 
True  Body,"  etc. 


268  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

side  door  of  the  choir^  struggling  like  a  demoniac  and  going 
on  worse  than  ever  with  his  'patatins*  and  'tarabans.' 

"Next  mornings  at  daybreak^  the  unfortunate  man  was 
on  his  knees  in  the  prior's  oratory^  owning  his  fault  with  a 
torrent  of  tears. 

"  'It  was  the  elixir,  my  lord;  it  was  the  elixir  that  over- 
came me/  he  said,  beating  on  his  breast. 

"And  seeing  him  so  conscience-smitten,  so  penitent,  the 
good  prior  himself  was  moved. 

"  'Come,  come.  Father  Gaucher,  set  your  mind  at  rest;  it 
will  all  pass  away  like  dew  in  the  sun.  .  .  .  After  all, 
the  scandal  has  not  been  so  great  as  you  think.  To  be  sure, 
there  was  a  song  that  was  a  little.  .  .  .  hem !  hem !  . 
Yet  let  us  hope  that  the  novices  would  not  pick  it  up.  .  .  . 
But  now,  let  us  see;  tell  me  frankly  how  it  all  happened. 
.  .  .  It  was  when  you  were  trying  the  elixir,  was  it  not  ? 
Perhaps  your  hand  was  too  heavy  ?  .  .  ,  Yes,  yes,  I  under- 
stand. .  .  .  It  is  like  brother  Schwartz,  the  inventor  of 
gunpowder:  you  have  been  the  victim  of  your  invention.  But 
tell  me,  my  good  friend,  is  it  absolutely  necessary  for  you  to 
try  this  terrible  elixir  on  yourself.^* 

"  'Unfortunately  it  is,  my  lord !  The  gauge  gives  me  the 
strength  and  the  degree  of  alcohol,  it  is  true ;  but  for  the  fine- 
ness, the  velvetiness,  I  can't  very  well  trust  anything  but  my 
tongue!    .    .    .* 

"  'Ah,  to  be  sure !  .  .  .  But  listen  for  another  moment 
to  what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you.  .  .  .  When  you  are 
.compelled  to  taste  the  elixir  thus,  does  it  seem  good.^  Do 
you  derive  any  pleasure  from  it.'^' 

"  'Alas,  yes,  my  lord !'  said  the  unfortunate  father,  blush- 
ing to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  'These  last  two  evenings  I  have 
found  such  a  bouquet  in  it,  such  an  aroma !  .  .  .  Surely  it 
must  be  the  Devil  that  has  played  me  this  sorry  trick.    ,    .    , 


REV.  FATHER  GAUCHER'S  ELIXIR  269 

And  so  I  have  quite  decided  to  use  nothing  but  the  gauge  in 
future.  If  the  liquor  is  not  fine  enough,  if  it  does  not  pearl 
enough,  so  much  the  worse.    .    .    . ' 

"  Tor  any  sake  don't  do  that/  the  prior  interrupted  excit- 
edly. *We  must  not  run  the  risk  of  making  our  customers 
dissatisfied.  .  .  .  All  you  have  to  do,  now  that  you  are 
forewarned,  is  to  be  on  your  guard.  .  .  .  Let  us  see,  how 
much  do  you  require  to  ascertain.^  .  .  .  Fifteen  or  twenty 
drops,  eh?  .  .  .  Let's  say  twenty  drops.  .  .  .  The  Devil 
.  will  be  smart  indeed  if  he  catches  you  with  twenty  drops. 
...  In  any  case,  to  prevent  accidents,  I'll  dispense  you 
from  coming  to  church  in  future.  You  will  say  the  evening 
office  in  the  distillery.  .  .  .  And,  meanwhile,  go  in  peace, 
reverend  father,  and,  above  all  things,  count  your  drops  care- 
fully.' 

**Alas,  his  poor  reverence  had  much  need  to  count  his 
drops  !  .  .  .  The  Devil  had  hold  of  him,  and  never  after- 
wards let  him  go. 

**The  distillery  heard  some  strange  offices  ! 

"So  long  as  it  was  day,  all  went  well.  The  father  was 
tolerably  calm :  he  prepared  his  chafing  dishes  and  alembics, 
sorted  his  herbs  carefully,  all  Provence  herbs,  fine,  gray, 
serrated,  hot  with  perfume  and  sunshine.  .  .  .  But  in  the 
evening,  when  the  simples  were  infused  and  the  elixir  was 
cooling  in  great  copper  basins,  the  poor  man's  martyrdom 
began. 

"  'Seventeen  .    .    .  eighteen  .    .    .  nineteen  .    .     .  twenty ! 

"The  drops  fell  from  the  stirring-rod  into  the  silver-gilt 
goblet.  The  father  swallowed  the  twenty  at  a  gulp,  almost 
without  pleasure.  What  he  longed  for  was  the  twenty-first. 
Oh,  that  twenty-first  drop  !  .  .  .  Then,  to  escape  tempta- 
tion, he  went  and  knelt  down  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  labora- 


270  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

tory^  and  buried  himself  in  his  paternosters.  But  from  the 
still-warm  liquor  there  rose  a  faint  steam  charged  with 
aromas,  which  came  stealing  about  him  and  sent  him  back 
willy-nilly  to  his  basins.  .  .  .  The  liquor  was  a  lovely 
gol4en  green.  .  .  .  Leaning  over  it  with  open  nostrils,  the 
father  stirred  it  gently  with  his  stirring-rod,  and  in  the  little 
sparkling  bubbles  that  the  emerald  wave  carried  round  he 
seemed  to  see  Auntie  Begon's  eyes  laughing  and  twinkling  as 
they  looked  at  him.    .    .    . 

**  'Here  goes  !  Another  drop  !' 

"And  with  one  drop  and  another  the  unfortunate  at  last 
had  his  goblet  full  to  the  brim.  Then,  completely  vanquished, 
he  sank  down  in  a  great  arm-chair,  and  lolling  at  ease,  his 
eyes  half  shut,  tasted  his  sin  sip  by  sip,  saying  softly  to  him- 
self with  a  delicious  remorse : 

**  *Ah !  I'm  damning  myself  .    .    .  damning  myself.  .    .    / 

**The  most  terrible  thing  was  that  at  the  bottom  of  this 
diabolical  elixir  he  rediscovered  by  some  black  art  or  other 
all  Auntie  Begon's  naughty  songs:  'There  are  three  little 
gossips,  who  talk  of  making  a  banquet*  .  .  .or:  'Master 
Andrews'  little  shepherdess  goes  off  to  the  wood  by  her  little 
self,'  and  always  the  famous  one  about  the  White  Fathers: 
'Patatin,  patatan.* 

"Imagine  his  confusion  next  day  when  his  cell-mates  said 
to  him  slyly: 

"  *Eh,  eh.  Father  Gaucher,  you  had  a  bee  in  your  bonnet 
last  night,  when  you  went  to  bed !' 

"Then  it  was  tears,  despair  and  fasting,  sackcloth  and 
discipline.  But  nothing  could  avail  against  the  demon  of  the 
elixir,  and  every  evening  at  the  same  hour  his  possession 
began  anew. 

/ 

"All  this  time  orders  were  pouring  into  the  abbey  in  excess 
of  expectation.     They  came  from  Nimes,  from   Aix,    from 


REV.  FATHER  GAUCHER'S  ELIXIR  271 

Avignon^  from  Marseilles'^ .  .  .  Every  day  the  convent 
became  more  like  a  factory.  There  were  packing  brothers, 
labeling  brothers,  others  for  the  accounts,  others  for  the 
carting;  the  service  of  God  may  have  lost  a  few  tolls  of  the 
bells  now  and  again  by  it;  but  I  can  assure  you  that  the 
poor  folk  of  the  district  lost  nothing.    .    .    . 

**Well,  then,  one  fine  Sunday  morning,  whilst  the  treasurer 
was  reading  in  full  chapter  his  stock-sheet  at  the  end  of 
the  year,  and  the  good  canons  were  listening  to  him  with 
sparkling  eyes  and  smiles  on  their  lips,  who  should  burst 
into  the  middle  of  the  meeting  but  Father  Gaucher,  shouting 
out: 

"  'That's  an  end  of  it !  .  .  .  I  can*t  stand  it  any  longer ! 
.    .    .    Give  me  my  cows  again  !* 

"  *But  what  is  it.  Father  Gaucher?*  asked  the  prior,  who 
had  his  own  suspicions  of  what  it  was. 

"  *What  is  it,  my  lord  ?  .  .  .  I'm  on  a  fair  way  of  pre- 
paring myself  a  fine  eternity  of  flames  and  pitchforks.  .  .  . 
I  drink,  and  drink,  like  a  lost  soul ;  that's  what  it  is !  .    .    .  * 

"  *But  I  told  you  to  count  your  drops.' 

"  *Ah,  so  you  did !  To  count  my  drops !  But  I  would  need 
to  count  by  goblets  now.  .  .  .  Yes,  your  Reverences,  that's 
what  I've  come  to.  Three  bottles  an  evening!  .  .  .  You 
know  quite  well  that  can't  go  on  forever.  ...  So,  get 
whom  you  like  to  make  the  elixir.  .  .  .  God's  fire  burn  me, 
if  I  take  anything  more  to  do  with  it !' 

"There  was  no  more  laughing  for  the  chapter. 

"  *But,  wretched  man,  you'll  ruin  us-!'  cried  the  treasurer, 
brandishing  his  ledger. 

"  'Would  you  rather  I  damned  myself.^' 

"Thereupon  the  prior  stood  up. 

"'Reverend  sirs,'  he  said,  stretching  out  his  fine  white 
hand,  on  which  the  pastoral  ring  glistened,  'it  can  all  be 

12,  Cities  in  Provence,  southern  France. 


272  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

*  arranged.  .  .  .  It's  at  nighty  is  it  not,  my  dear  son,  that 
the  demon  assails  you?    .    .    / 

"  *Yes,  Sir  Prior,  regularly  every  evening.  .  .  .  When 
I  see  the  night  coming  on,  I  get  all  in  a  sweat,  saving  your 
Reverence's  presence,  like  Capitou's  ass,  when  he  saw  them 
come  with  the  pack-saddle.'  ' 

"  'Well,  then,  keep  your  mind  easy.  ...  In  future, 
every  evening,  during  the  office,  we'll  recite  on  your  behalf 
the  Prayer  of  Saint  Augustine,  to  which  plenary  indulgence 
is  attached.  .  .  .  With  that,  you  are  safe,  whatever  hap- 
pens.   .    .    .    It  is  absolution  at  the  very  moment  of  sin.' 

"  *0  that  is  good,  thank  you.  Sir  Prior.' 

"And,  without  asking  anything  more.  Father  Gaucher 
returned  to  his  alembics  as  light  as  a  lark. 

"And  in  fact,  from  that  moment,  every  evening,  at  the 
end  of  compline,  the  officiant  never  failed  to  say : 

"  *Let  us  pray  for  our  poor  Father  Gaucher,  who  is  sacri- 
ficing his  soul  in  the  interests  of  the  community.  Or  emus, 
Domine}^   .    .    .' 

"And,  while  the  prayer  ran  along  all  those  white  cowls 
prostrated  in  the  shadow  of  the  naves,  like  a  little  breeze 
over  snow,  away  at  the  other  end  of  the  convent,  behind  the 
lighted  windows  of  the  distillery.  Father  Gaucher  might  be 
heard  chanting  open-throated : 

'*  'In  Paris  there  dwells   a  White  Father, 
Patatin,  patatan,  tarabin,  taraban; 
In  Paris  there  dwells  a  White  Father 
Who  sets  all  'the  little  nuns  dancing, 
Trip,  trip,  trip,  trip  in  a  garden; 
Who  sets  all  the  .  .  .^  '' 

At  this  point  the  good  cure  stopped  short  in  horror. 
"Mercy  on  us  !  If  my  parishioners  heard  me !" 

13.  "Let  us  pray,  O  Lord,"  part  of  the  Catholic  service. 


COPPEE 

(1842-1908) 

Francois  Coppee  was  born  in  Paris,  January  12,  1842. 
While  a  young  man  he  worked  as  a  clerk  in  the  Ministry  of 
War,  and  later  was  dramatic  critic  for  La  Patrie,  a  promi- 
nent Parisian  newspaper.  From  1878  to  1884  he  was  archiv- 
ist of  the  Comedie  Fran9aise,  giving  up  this  position  on  his 
election  to  the  French  Academy. 

Coppee  began  his  literary  career  as  a  poet,  but  in  later 
years  turned  to  the  drama  and  the  short  story  as  modes  of 
expression.  He  received  no  recognition  as  a  poet  until  1869, 
when  the  phenomenal  success  of  his  play,  Le  Passant,  drew 
him  from  the  obscurity  of  his  government  clerkship.  It  was 
in  this  play  that  Sarah  Bernhardt  met  with  her  first  success. 
Coppee  continued  to  produce  volume  after  volume  of  poetry 
as  well  as  a  number  of  plays ;  at  the  same  time  he  took  active 
part  in  the  affairs  of  the  day,  especially  political  movements 
such  as  the  Dreyfus  affair. 

His  stories  are  of  uneven  merit,  but  the  best  of  them 
promise  to  guarantee  him  an  important  place  in  French  fic- 
tion. In  his  stories  he  aimed  to  be  simple  and  intense,  thor- 
'bughly  earnest,  and  deeply  sympathetic.  At  times  he  be- 
comes somewhat  morbid  and  over-sentimental,  but,  on  the 
whole,  there  is  a  certain  geniality  about  his  stories,  a  charac- 
teristic not  at  all  common  to  most  of  his  contemporaries. 
These  various  traits  are  shown  particularly  in  those  stories 
in  which  he  describes  the  trials  and  sufferings  of  the  poor 
and  the  unfortunate. 

Like  every  French  writer  of  his  day  Coppee  was  influenced 
by  the  War  of  1870  with  Germany,  and  a  number  of  his 
stories  touch  upon  some  phase  of  the  hardship  and  injustice 
of  war  when  brought  home  to  the  individual.     The  best  of 

273 


274  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

these  are  A  Piece  of  Bread  (printed  in  this  volume  by  per- 
mission of  Current  Opinion,  N.  Y.)  and  The  Substitute, 

A  PIECE   OF   BREAD 

By  FRANCOIS  COPPJ^B 

The  young  Due  de  Hardimont  happened  to  be  at  Aix  in 
Savoy/  whose  waters  he  hoped  would  benefit  his  famous 
mare^  Periehole,  who  had  become  wind-broken  since  the  cold 
she  had  caught  at  the  last  Derby/ — and  was  finishing  his 
breakfast  while  glancing  over  the  morning  paper^  when  he 
read  the  news  of  the  disastrous  engagement  at  Reichshoffen.^ 

He  emptied  his  glass  of  chartreuse/  laid  his  napkin  upon 
the  restaurant  table^  ordered  his  valet  to  pack  his  trunks^ 
and  two  hours  later  took  the  express  to  Paris;  arriving 
there,  he  hastened  to  the  recruiting  office  and  enlisted  in  a 
regiment  of  the  line. 

In  vain  had  he  led  the  enervating  life  of  a  fashionable 
swell — that  was  the  word  of  the  time — and  had  knocked 
about  race-course  stables  from  the  age  of  nineteen  to  twenty- 
five.  In  circumstances  like  these,  he  could  not  forget  that 
Enguerrand  de  Hardimont  died  of  the  plague  at  Tunis  the 
same  day  as  Saint-Louis/  that  Jean  de  Hardimont  com- 
manded the  Free  Companies  under  Du  Guesclin/  and  that 
Fran9ois-Henri  de  Hardimont  was  killed  at  Fontenoy  ^  with 
"Red"  Maison.  Upon  learning  that  France  had  lost  a 
battle  on  French  soil,  the  young  duke  felt  the  blood  mount 
to  his  face,  giving  him  a  horrible  feeling  of  suffocation. 

And  so,  early  in  November,  1870,  Henri  de  Hardimont 

1.  A  province  in  southeastern  France. 

2.  The  famous  annual  race  at  Epsom,  England. 

3.  A  town  in  Alsace.    A  battle  was  fought  there  Aug.  6,  1870. 

4.  A  liqueur  made  by  the  Carthusian  monks. 

5.  Louis  IX  of  France.     He  died  Aug.  25,  1270. 

6.  A  French  general  (1320-1380). 

7.  A  village  in  Belgium,  where  a  bloody  battle  was  fought  on  May 
11,  1745. 


A  PIECE  OF  BREAD  275 

returned  to  Paris  with  his  regiment,  forming  part  of  Vinoy's^ 
corps,  and  his  company  being  the  advance  guard  before  the 
redoubt  of  Hautes  Bruyeres,  a  position  fortified  in  haste, 
and  which  protected  the  cannon  of  Fort  Bicetre. 

It  was  a  gloomy  place;  a  road  planted  with  clusters  of 
broom,  and  broken  up  into  muddy  ruts,  traversing  the  lep- 
rous fields  of  the  neighborhood;  on  the  border  stood  an 
abandoned  tavern,  a  tavern  with  arbors,  where  the  soldiers 
had  established  their  post.  They  had  fallen  back  here  a  few 
days  before;  the  grape-shot  had  broken  down  some  of  the 
young  trees,  and  all  of  them  bore  upon  their  bark  the  white 
scars  of  bullet  wounds.  As  for  the  house,  its  appearance 
made  one  shudder;  the  roof  had  been  torn  by  a  shell,  and  the 
walls  seemed  whitewashed  with  blood.  The  torn  and  shattered 
arbors  under  their  network  of  twigs,  the  rolling  of  an  upset 
cask,  the  high  swing  whose  wet  rope  groaned  in  the  damp 
wind,  and  the  inscriptions  over  the  door,  furrowed  by  bullets ; 
''Cabinets  de  societe — Absinthe — Vermouth — Vin  a  60  cent, 
le  litre*' ^ — encircling  a  dead  rabbit  painted  over  two  billiard 
cues  tied  in  a  cross  by  a  ribbon, — all  this  recalled  with  cruel 
irony  the  popular  entertainment  of  former  days.  And  over 
all,  a  wretched  winter  sky,  across  which  rolled  heavy  laden 
clouds,  an  odious  sky,  angry  and  hateful. 

At  the  door  of  the  tavern  stood  the  young  duke,  motion- 
less, with  his  gun  in  his  shoulder  belt,  his  cap  over  his  eyes, 
his  benumbed  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  red  trousers,  and 
shivering  in  his  sheepskin  coat.  He  gave  himself  up  to  his 
somber  thoughts,  this  defeated  soldier,  and  looked  with 
sorrowful  eyes  toward  a  line  of  hills,  lost  in  the  fog,  where 
could  be  seen  each  moment  the  flash  and  smoke  of  a  Krupp  ^^ 
gun,  followed  by  a  report. 

8.  A  French  general  during  the  siege  of  Paris,  1870. 

9.  The  sign  means  that  the  place  consisted  of  small  booths,  and 
that  drinks  were  sold  at  12  cents  a  litre   (nearly  a  quart). 

10.  The  famous  German  gun-maker. 


276  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

Suddenly  he  felt  hungry. 

Stooping,  he  drew  from  his  knapsack,  which  stood  near 
him  leaning  against  the  wall,  a  piece  of  ammunition  bread, 
and  as  he  had  lost  his  knife,  he  bit  off  a  morsel  and  slowly 
ate  it. 

But  after  a  few  mouthf uls,  he  had  enough  of  it ;  the  bread 
was  hard  and  had  a  bitter  taste.  No  fresh  would  be  given 
until  the  next  morning's  distribution,  so  the  commissary 
officer  had  willed  it.  This  was  certainly  a  very  hard  life 
sometimes.  The  remembrance  of  former  breakfasts  came  to 
him,  such  as  he  had  called  "hygienic,"  when,  the  day  after 
too  over-heating  a  supper,  he  would  seat  himself  by  a  win- 
dow on  the  ground  floor  of  the  Cafe-Anglais,  and  be  served 
with  a  cutlet,  or  buttered  eggs  with  asparagus  tips,  and  the 
butler,  knowing  his  tastes,  would  bring  him  a  fine  bottle  of 
old  Leovile,  lying  in  its  basket,  and  which  he  would  pour 
out  with  the  greatest  care.  The  deuce  take  it !  That  was  a 
good  time,  all  the  same,  and  he  would  never  become  accus- 
tomed to  this  life  of  wretchedness. 

And,  in  a  moment  of  impatience,  the  young  man  threw  the 
rest  of  his  bread  into  the  mud. 

At  the  same  moment  a  soldier  of  the  line  came  from  the 
tavern,  stooped  and  picked  up  the  bread,  drew  back  a  few 
steps,  wiped  it  with  his  sleeve  and  began  to  devour  it 
eagerly. 

Henri  de  Hardimont  was  already  ashamed  of  his  action, 
and  now,  with  a  feeling  of  pity,  watched  the  poor  devil  who 
gave  proof  of  such  a  good  appetite.  He  was  a  tall,  large 
young  fellow,  but  badly  made;  with  feverish  eyes  and  a 
hospital  beard,  and  so  thin  that  his  shoulder-blades  stood 
out  beneath  his  well-worn  cape. 

"You  are  very  hungry?'*  he  said,  approaching  the 
soldier. 

"As  you  see,"  replied  the  other  with  his  mouth  full. 


A  PIECE  OF  BREAD 


271' 


"Excuse  me^  then.  For  if  I  had  known  that  you  would 
like  the  breads  I  would  not  have  thrown  it  away/' 

"It  does  not  harm  it/'  replied  the  soldier,  "I  am  not 
dainty." 

"No  matter/'  said  the  gentleman,  "it  was  wrong  to  do  so, 
and  I  reproach  myself.  But  I  do  not  wish  you  to  have  a 
bad  opinion  of  me,  and  as  I  have  some  old  cognac  in  my 
can,  let  us  drink  a  drop  together." 

The  man  had  finished  eating.  The  duke  and  he  drank  a 
mouthful  of  brandy;   the  acquaintance  was  made. 

"What  is  your  name.^"  asked  the  soldier  of  the  line. 

"Hardimont,"  replied  the  duke,  omitting  his  title.  "And 
yours  ?" 

"Jean- Victor — I  have  just  entered  this  company — I  am 
just  out  of  the  ambulance — I  was  wounded  at  Chatillon — • 
oh !  but  it  was  good  in  the  ambulance,  and  in  the  infirmary 
they  gave  me  horse  bouillon.  But  I  had  only  a  scratch, 
and  the  major  signed  my  dismissal.  So  much  the  worse  for 
me !  Now  I  am  going  to  commence  to  be  devoured  by  hunger 
again — for,  believe  me,  if  you  will,  comrade,  but,  such  as 
you  see  me,  I  have  been  hungry  all  my  life." 

The  words  were  startling,  especially  to  a  Sybarite  ^^  who 
had  just  been  longing  for  the  kitchen  of  the  Cafe- Anglais, 
and  the  Due  de  Hardimont  looked  at  his  companion  in  almost 
terrified  amazement.  The  soldier  smiled  sadly,  showing  his 
hungry,  wolf-like  teeth,  as  white  as  his  sickly  face,  and,  as 
if  understanding  that  the  other  expected  something  further 
in  the  way  of  explanation  or  confidence: 

"Come,"  said  he,  suddenly  ceasing  his  familiar  way  of 
speaking,  doubtless  divining  that  his  companion  belonged  to 
the  rich  and  happy ;  "let  us  walk  along  the  road  to  warm  our 
feet,  and  I  will  tell  you  things  which  probably  you  have 

11.  One  who  lives  in  luxury. 


278  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

never  heard  of— I  am  called  Jean- Victor^  that  is  all^  for  I 
am  a  foundling,  and  my  only  happy  remembrance  is  of  my 
earliest  childhood,  at  the  Asylum.  The  sheets  were  white  on 
our  little  beds  in  the  dormitory;  we  played  in  a  garden 
under  large  trees,  and  a  kind  Sister  took  care  of  us,  quite 
young  and  as  pale  as  a  wax-taper — she  died  afterwards  of 
lung  trouble — I  was  her  favorite,  and  would  rather  walk  by 
her  than  play  with  the  other  children,  because  she  used  to 
draw  me  to  her  side  and  lay  her  warm  thin  hand  on  my  fore- 
head. But  when  I  was  twelve  years  old,  after  my  first  commu- 
nion, there  was  nothing  but  poverty.  The  managers  put  me  as 
apprentice  with  a  chair-mender  in  Faubourg  Saint- Jacques. 
That  is  not  a  trade,  you  know,  it  is  impossible  to  earn  one's 
living  at  it,  and  as  proof  of  it,  the  greater  part  of  the  time 
the  master  was  only  able  to  engage  the  poor  little  blind  boys 
from  the  Blind  Asylum.  It  was  there  that  I  began  to  suffer 
with  hunger.  The  master  and  mistress,  two  old  Limousins  ^^ 
— afterwards  murdered — were  terrible  misers,  and  the  bread, 
cut  in  tiny  pieces  for  each  meal,  was  kept  under  lock  and 
key  the  rest  of  the  time.  You  should  have  seen  the  mistress 
at  supper  time  serving  the  soup,  sighing  at  each  ladleful 
she  dished  out.  The  other  apprentices,  two  blind  boys,  were 
less  unhappy;  they  were  not  given  more  than  I,  but  they 
could  not  see  the  reproachful  look  the  wicked  woman  used 
to  give  me  as  she  handed  me  my  plate.  And  then,  unfortu- 
nately, I  was  always  so  terribly  hungry.  Was  it  my  fault, 
do  you  think  }  I  served  there  for  three  years,  in  a  continual 
fit  of  hunger.  Three  years !  And  one  can  learn  the  work 
in  one  month.  But  the  managers  could  not  know  everything, 
and  had  no  suspicion  that  the  children  were  abused.  Ah! 
you  were  astonished  just  now  when  you  saw  me  take  the 
bread  out  of  the  mud.^  I  am  used  to  that,  for  I  have  picked 
up  enough  of  it;  and  crusts  from  the  dust,  and  when  they 
12.  People  from  Limoges,  southern  France. 


A  PIECE  OF  BREAD  279 

were  too  hard  and  dry,  I  would  soak  them  all  night  in  my 
basin.  I  had  windfalls  sometimes,  such  as  pieces  of  bread 
nibbled  at  the  ends,  which  the  children  would  take  out  of 
their  baskets  and  throw  on  the  sidewalks  as  they  came  from 
school.  I  used  to  try  to  prowi  around  there  when  I  went  on 
errands.  At  last  my  time  was  ended  at  this  trade  by  which 
no  man  can  support  himself.  Well,  I  did  many  other  things, 
for  I  was  willing  enough  to  work.  I  served  the  masons;  I 
have  been  shop-boy,  floor-polisher,  I  don't  know  what  all! 
But,  pshaw;  today,  work  is  lacking,  another  time  I  lose  my 
place.  Briefly,  I  never  have  had  enough  to  eat.  Heavens ! 
how  often  have  I  been  crazy  with  hunger  as  I  have  passed 
the  bakeries !  Fortunately  for  me,  at  these  times  I  have 
always  remembered  the  good  Sister  at  the  Asylum,  who  so 
often  told  me  to  be  honest,  and  I  seemed  to  feel  her  warm 
little  hand  upon  my  forehead.  At  last,  when  I  was  eighteen 
I  enlisted;  you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that  the  trooper  has 
only  just  enough.  Now, — I  could  almost  laugh — here 
is  the  siege  and  famine !  You  see,  I  did  not  lie,  when 
I  told  you  just  now  that  I  have  always,  always  been 
hungry  I" 

The  young  duke  had  a  kind  heart,  and  was  profoundly 
moved  by  this  terrible  story,  told  him  by  a  man  like  himself, 
by  a  soldier  whose  uniform  made  him  his  equal.  It  was  even 
fortunate  for  the  phlegm  of  this  dandy,  that  the  night  wind 
dried  the  tears  which  dimmed  his  eyes. 

"Jean- Victor,"  said  he,  ceasing  in  his  turn,  by  a  delicate 
tact,  to  speak  familiarly  to  the  foundling,  "if  we  survive 
this  dreadful  war,  we  will  meet  again,  and  I  hope  that  I  may 
be  useful  to  you.  But,  in  the  meantime,  as  there  is  no  bakery 
but  the  commissary,  and  as  my  ration  of  bread  is  twice  too 
large  for  my  delicate  appetite, — it  is  understood,  is  it  not  ? — 
we  will  share  it  like  good  comrades." 

It  was  strong  and  hearty,  the  hand-clasp  which  followed ; 


280  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

then,  harassed  and  worn  by  their  frequent  watches  and 
alarms,  as  night  fell,  they  returned  to  the  tavern,  where 
twelve  soldiers  were  sleeping  on  the  straw;  and,  throwing 
themselves  down  side  by  side,  they  were  soon  sleeping 
soundly. 

Toward  midnight  Jean- Victor  awoke,  being  hungry  prob- 
ably. The  wind  had  scattered  the  clouds,  and  a  ray  of 
moonlight  made  its  way  into  the  room  through  a  hole  in  the 
roof,  lighting  up  the  handsome  blonde  head  of  the  young 
duke,  who  was  sleeping  like  an  Endymion. 

Still  touched  by  the  kindness  of  his  comrade,  Jean- Victor 
was  gazing  at  him  with  admiration,  when  the  sergeant  of 
the  platoon  opened  the  door  and  called  the  five  men  who 
were  to  relieve  the  sentinels  of  the  outposts.  The  duke  was 
of  the  number,  but  he  did  not  waken  when  his  name  was 
called. 

"Hardimont,  stand  up  !'*  repeated  the  non-commissioned 
officer. 

**If  you  are  willing,  sergeant,*'  said  Jean- Victor,  rising,  "I 
will  take  his  duty,  he  is  sleeping  so  soundly — and  he  is  my 
comrade." 

"As  you  please." 

The  five  men  left,  and  the  snoring  recommenced. 

But  half  an  hour  later  the  noise  of  near  and  rapid  firing 
burst  upon  the  night.  In  an  instant  every  man  was  on  his 
feet,  and  each,  with  his  hand  on  the  chamber  of  his  gun, 
stepped  cautiously  out,  looking  earnestly  along  the  road, 
lying  white  in  the  moonlight. 

"What  time  is  it.?'"  asked  the  duke.  "I  was  to  go  on  duty 
tonight." 

"Jean- Victor  went  in  your  place." 

At  that  moment  a  soldier  was  seen  running  toward  them 
along  the  road. 

"What  is  it?"  they  cried  as  he  stopped,  out  of  breath. 


A  PIECE  OF  BREAD  281 

"The  Prussians  have  attacked  us,  let  us  fall  back  to  the 
redoubt/' 

"And  your  comrades  ?" 

"They  are  coming — all  but  poor  Jean-Victor." 

"Where  is  he?"  cried  the  duke. 

"Shot  through  the  head  with  a  bullet — died  without  a 
word ! — ough !" 

One  night  last  winter,  the  Due  de  Hardimont  left  his 
club  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  his  neighbor, 
Count  de  Saulnes;  the  duke  had  lost  some  hundred  louis,^^ 
and  had  a  slight  headache. 

"If  you  are  willing,  Andre,"  he  said  to  his  companion, 
"we  will  go  home  on  foot — I  need  the  air." 

"Just  as  you  please,  I  am  willing,  although  the  walking 
may  be  bad." 

They  dismissed  their  coupes,  turned  up  the  collars  of 
their  overcoats,  and  set  off  towards  the  Madeleine.^*  Sud- 
denly an  object  rolled  before  the  duke  which  he  had  struck 
with  the  toe  of  his  boot;  it  was  a  large  piece  of  bread 
spattered  with  mud. 

Then,  to  his  amazement.  Monsieur  de  Saulnes  saw  the 
Due  de  Hardimont  pick  up  the  piece  of  bread,  wipe  it  care- 
fully with  his  handkerchief  embroidered  with  his  armorial 
bearings,  and  place  it  on  a  bench,  in  full  view  under  the 
gas-light. 

"What  did  you  do  that  for.^"  asked  the  count,  laughing 
heartily;  "are  you  crazy?" 

"It  is  in  memory  of  a  poor  fellow  who  died  for  me," 
replied  the  duke  in  a  voice  which  trembled  slightly,  "po 
not  laugh,  my  friend,  it  offends  me." 

13.  A  gold  coin  worth  $4.00. 

14.  A  famous  church  of  Paris. 


FRANCE 

(1844-         ) 

Jacques  Anatole  Thibault,  who  writes  under  the  name 
of  Anatole  France,  was  born  in  1844,,  in  Paris.  He  was 
a  boy  of  lively  imagination^  always  trying  to  put  into  prac- 
tice the  ideas  and  ideals  of  the  stories  which  he  read  or  had 
read  to  him.  At  the  age  of  seven  The  Lives  of  the  Saints 
was  read  to  him  by  his  mother,  and  this  profoundly  im- 
pressed him.  Before,  his  ambition  had  been  to  die  a  heroic 
death  on  the  field  of  battle  like  the  knights  of  old,  but  as 
that  seemed  impracticable,  in  his  youthful  fancy  he  decided 
to  become  a  saint,  a  career  which  had  **fewer  requirements 
and  was  of  greater  renown  than  that  of  a  soldier."  School 
interfered  with  his  final  resolve  to  become  a  hermit  in  the 
desert  wastes  of  Le  Jardin  des  Plantes,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  public  gardens  of  Paris. 

His  father  was  a  bookseller  on  the  Quai  Voltaire,  and  in 
his  shop  France  early  acquired  the  habit  of  promiscuous 
reading.  He  was  fond  of  roaming  around  the  older  and 
more  picturesque  parts  of  Paris,  observing  with  interest  the 
old  shops  full  of  curios ;  then,  too,  what  interesting  persons 
one  could  always  find  on  the  streets,  such  as  the  milkmen, 
the  soldiers  in  their  resplendent  uniforms,  and  above  all,  the 
women  who  sold  flowers  on  the  quay ! 

As  a  student  in  college  Anatole  France  became  fond  of  the 
Latin  and  Greek  classics,  and  this,  together  with  an  innate 
love  for  the  curious,  has  led  him  into  all  sorts  of  literary 
and  historical  by-ways,  giving  his  work  an  atmosphere  of 
erudition  which  constitutes  one  of  its  most  fascinating 
charms.  In  this  respect  he  resembles  Charles  Lamb,  and,  like 
Lamb,  Anatole  France  constantly  puts  his  own  personality 
into  eve^rything  he  writes. 

His  first  published  work,  a  critical  essay  on  De  Vigny,  was 
282 


FRANCE  283 

followed  by  several  volumes  of  poetry.  As  a  novelist  his  first 
real  success  was  The  Crime  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard  (1881). 
This  is  an  intensely  interesting  story  and  forms  an  excellent 
beginning  for  the  study  and  appreciation  of  the  novels  of 
Anatole  France.  It  has  the  clear,  forcible,  and  finished  style 
characteristic  of  all  his  writing,  while  the  chief  character 
in  the  story,  the  old  scholar  who  still  likes  to  keep  in  touch 
with  the  world  at  large,  is  a  type  of  character  that  the 
author  likes  to  draw.  Here,  as  in  all  his  stories,  the  in- 
terest is  concentrated  on  the  characters  rather  than  on  the 
plot,  and  the  development  of  the  story  is  brought  about 
largely  through  conversation  instead  of  direct  narration. 

Anatole  France  has  always  been  very  active,  both  as  a 
literary  man  and  as  a  publicist.  He  has  published  many 
volumes  of  stories,  both  long  and  short.  The  Juggler  of 
Notre  Dame,  printed  in  this  book,  is  one  of  his  best  sketches. 
The  emphasis  upon  character  should  be  noted.  As  a  pub- 
licist he  has  made  many  speeches,  most  of  which  have 
appeared  in  book  form.  He  had  definite  leanings  towards 
Socialism,  and  the  Dreyfus  case  finally  swung  him  into  the 
ranks  of  the  Socialists.  He  never  has  been  of  that  radical 
type  which  believes  that  the  present  time  is  hopelessly  out 
of  joint,  but  he  seems  to  believe  that  there  will  be  a  great 
leveling  of  classes,  and  that  this  will  be  a  universal  blessing. 

In  spite  of  advanced  years,  Anatole  France  has  been 
prominent  in  the  Great  War  of  1914,  asking  that  he  be 
allowed  to  wear  a  uniform,  and  giving  his  pen  to  the  service 
of  his  country.  A  volume  of  his  war  sketches.  On  the  Glori- 
ous Path,  has  already  appeared  (1917)» 


THE  JUGGLER  OF  NOTRE  DAME  ^ 

By  ANATOLE  FRANCE 


m 


In  the  days  of  King  Louis  there  was  a  poor  juggler  in 
France^  a  native  of  Compiegne,  Barnaby  by  name,  who 
went  about  from  town  to  town  performing  feats  of  skill  and 
strength. 

On  fair  days  he  would  unfold  an  old  worn-out  carpet  in 
the  public  square,  and  when  by  means  of  a  jovial  address, 
which  he  had  learned  of  a  very  ancient  juggler,  and  which  he 
never  varied  in  the  least,  he  had  drawn  together  the  children 
and  loafers,  he  assumed  extraordinary  attitudes,  and  bal- 
anced a  tin  plate  on  the  tip  of  his  nose.  At  first  the  crowd 
would  feign  indifference. 

But  when,  supporting  himself  on  his  hands  face  down- 
wards, he  threw  into  the  air  six  copper  balls,  which  glit- 
tered in  the  sunshine,  and  caught  them  again  with  his  feet; 
or  when  throwing  himself  backwards  until  his  heels  and 
the  nape  of  his  neck  met,  giving  his  body  the  form  of  a 
perfect  wheel,  he  would  juggle  in  this  posture  with  a  dozen 
knives,  a  murmur  of  admiration  would  escape  the  spectators, 
and  pieces  of  money  rain  down  upon  the  carpet. 

Nevertheless,  like  the  majority  of  those  who  live  by  their 
wits,  Barnaby  had  a  great  struggle  to  make  a  living. 

Earning  his  bread  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  he  bore  rather 
more  than  his  share  of  the  penalties  consequent  upon  the 
misdoings  of  our  father  Adam. 

Again,  he  was  unable  to  work  as  constantly  as  he  would  | 
have  been  willing  to  do.  The  warmth  of  the  sun  and  the  •^ 
broad  daylight  were  as  necessary  to  enable  him  to  display 

1.  Translated  by  Frederic  Chapman. 
284 


THE  JUGGLER  OF  NOTRE  DAME  285 

his  brilliant  parts  as  to  the  trees  if  flower  and  fruit  should 
be  expected  of  them.  In  winter  time  he  was  nothing  more 
than  a  tree  stripped  of  its  leaves,  and  as  it'  were  dead.  The 
frozen  ground  was  hard  to  the  juggler,  and,  like  the  grass- 
hopper of  which  Marie  de  France  ^  tells  us,  the  inclement 
season  caused  him  to  suffer  both  cold  and  hunger.  But  as 
he  was  simple-natured  he  bore  his  ills  patiently. 

He  had  never  meditated  on  the  origin  of  wealth,  nor 
upon  the  inequality  of  human  conditions.  He  believed 
firmly  that  if  this  life  should  prove  hard,  the  life  to  come 
could  not  fail  to  redress  the  balance,  and  this  hope  upheld 
him.  He  did  not  resemble  those  thievish  and  miscreant 
Merry  Andrews^  who  sell  their  souls  to  the  devil.  He  never 
blasphemed  God's  name;  he  lived  uprightly,  and  although 
he  had  no  wife  of  his  own,  he  did  not  covet  his  neighbor's, 
since  woman  is  ever  the  enemy  of  the  strong  man,  as  it 
appears  by  the  history  of  Samson  recorded  in  the  Scriptures. 

In  truth,  his  was  not  a  nature  much  disposed  to  carnal 
delights,  and  it  was  a  greater  deprivation  to  him  to  forsake 
the  tankard  than  the  Hebe*  who  bore  it.  For  whilst  not 
wanting  in  sobriety,  he  was  fond  of  a  drink  when  the  weather 
waxed  hot.  He  was  a  worthy  man  who  feared  God,  and  was 
very  devoted  to  the  Blessed  Virgin. 

Never  did  he  fail  on  entering  a  church  to  fall  upon  his 
knees  before  the  image  of  the  Mother  of  God,  and  offer  up 
this  prayer  to  her : 

**Blessed  Lady,  keep  watch  over  my  life  until  it  shall 
please  God  that  I  die,  and  when  I  am  dead,  ensure  to  me  the 
possession  of  the  joys  of  paradise.'' 

2.  A  writer  of  lays  and  metrical  romances  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

3.  The  Merry  Andrews  were  clowns  or  buffoons,  wandering  from 
place  to  place  in  small  companies.  In  the  Middle  Ages  all  sorts  of 
actors  were  considered  outcasts.  ,     ..  ^ 

4.  A  Greek  goddess  of  youth,  cup-bearer  to  the  gods  before  tno 
coming  of  Ganymede. 


286  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

Now  on  a  certain  evening  after  a  dreary  wet  day  as  Bar- 
naby  pursued  his  road^  sad  and  bent^  carrying  under  his  arm 
his  balls  and  knives  wrapped  up  in  his  old  carpet^  on  the 
watch  for  some  barn  where,  though  he  might  not  sup,  he 
might  sleep,  he  perceived  on  the  road,  going  in  the  same 
direction  as  himself,  a  monk,  whom  he  saluted  courteously. 
And  as  they  walked  at  the  same  rate  they  fell  into  conversa- 
tion with  one  another. 

"Fellow  traveler,"  said  the  monk,  **how  comes  it  about  that 
you  are  clothed  all  in  green  .^  Is  it  perhaps  in  order  to  take 
the  part  of  a  jester  in  some  mystery  play.^" 

"Not  at  all,  good  father,"  replied  Barnaby.  "Such  as  you 
see  me,  I  am  called  Barnaby,  and  for  my  calling  I  am  a 
juggler.  There  would  be  no  pleasanter  calling  in  the  world 
if  it  would  always  provide  one  with  daily  bread." 

"Friend  Barnaby,"  returned  the  monk,  "be  careful  what 
you  say.  There  is  no  calling  more  pleasant  than  the  mon- 
astic life.  Those  who  lead  it  are  occupied  with  the  praises 
of  God,  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  the  saints ;  and,  indeed,  the 
religious  life  is  one  ceaseless  hymn  to  the  Lord." 

Barnaby  replied: 

"Good  father,  I  own  that  I  spoke  like  an  ignorant  man. 
Your  calling  cannot  be  in  any  respect  compared  to  mine, 
and  although  there  may  be  some  merit  in  dancing  with  a 
penny  balanced  on  a  stick  on  the  tip  of  one's  nose,  it  is  not 
a  merit  which  comes  within  hail  of  your  own.  Gladly  would 
I,  like  you,  good  father,  sing  my  office  day  by  day,  and 
especially  the  office  of  the  most  Holy  Virgin,  to  whom  I 
have  vowed  a  singular  devotion.  In  order  to  embrace  the 
monastic  life  I  would  willingly  abandon  the  art  by  which 
from  Soissons  to  Beauvais  I  am  well  known  in  upwards  of 
six  hundred  towns  and  villages." 

The  monk  was  touched  by  the  juggler's  simplicity,  and  as 


THE  JUGGLER  OF  NOTRE  DAME  287 

he  was  not  lacking  in  discernment,  he  at  once  recognized  in 
Barnaby  one  of  those  men  of  whom  it  is  said  in  the  Scrip- 
tures: Peace  on  earth  to  men  of  good  will.  And  for  this 
reason  he  replied: 

"Friend  Barnaby,  come  with  me,  and  I  will  have  you 
admitted  into  the  monastery  of  which  I  am  Prior.  He  who 
guided  St.  Mary  of  Egypt  in  the  desert  set  me  upon  your 
path  to  lead  you  into  the  way  of  salvation.'* 

It  was  in  this  manner,  then,  that  Barnaby  became  a 
monk.  In  the  monastery  into  which  he  was  received  the 
religious  vied  with  one  another  in  the  worship  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  and  in  her  honor  each  employed  all  the  knowledge 
and  all  the  skill  which  God  had  given  him. 

The  Prior  on  his  part  wrote  books  dealing  according  to 
the  rules  of  scholarship  with  the  virtues  of  the  Mother 
of  God. 

Brother  Maurice,  with  a  deft  hand  copied  out  these 
treatises  upon  sheets  of  vellum. 

Brother  Alexander  adorned  the  leaves  with  delicate  minia- 
ture paintings.  Here  were  displayed  the  Queen  of  Heaven 
seated  upon  Solomon's  throne,  and  while  four  lions  were 
on  guard  at  her  feet,  around  the  nimbus  which  encircled 
her  head  hovered  seven  doves,  which  are  the  seven  gifts 
of  the  Holy  Spirit,  the  gifts,  namely,  of  Fear,  Piety, 
Knowledge,  Strength,  Counsel,  Understanding,  and  Wis- 
dom. For  her  companions  she  had  six  virgins  with  hair  of 
gold,  namely.  Humility,  Prudence,  Seclusion,  Submission. 
Virginity,  and  Obedience. 

At  her  feet  were  two  little  naked  figures,  perfectly  white, 
in  an  attitude  of  supplication.  These  were  souls  imploring 
her  all-powerful  intercession  for  their  souFs  health,  and  we 
may  be  sure  not  imploring  in  vain. 

Upon  another  page  facing  this.  Brother  Alexander  repre- 
sented Eve,  so  that  the  Fall  and  the  Redemption  could  be 


238  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

perceived  at  one  and  the  same  time — Eve  the  Wife  abased, 
and  Mary  the  Virgin  exalted. 

Furthermore,  to  the  marvel  of  the  beholder,  this  book 
contained  presentments  of  the  Well  of  Living  Waters,  the 
Fountain,  the  Lily,  the  Moon,  the  Sun,  and  the  Garden 
Enclosed  of  which  the  Song  of  Songs^  tells  us,  the  Gate  of 
Heaven  and  the  City  of  God,  and  all  these  things  were 
symbols  of  the  Blessed  Virgin. 

Brother  Marbode  was  likewise  one  of  the  most  loving 
children  of  Mary. 

He  spent  all  his  days  carving  images  in  stone,  so  that 
his  beard,  his  eyebrows,  and  his  hair  were  white  with  dust, 
and  his  eyes  continually  swollen  and  weeping;  but  his 
strength  and  cheerfulness  were  not  diminished,  although 
he  was  now  well  gone  in  years,  and  it  was  clear  that  the 
Queen  of  Paradise  still  cherished  her  servant  in  his  old  age. 
Marbode  represented  her  seated  upon  a  throne,  her  brow 
encircled  with  an  orb-shaped  nimbus  set  with  pearls.  And 
he  took  care  that  the  folds  of  her  dress  should  cover  the 
feet  of  her,  concerning  whom  the  prophet  declared:  My 
beloved  is  as  a  garden  enclosed. 

Sometimes,  too,  he  depicted  her  in  the  semblance  of  a 
child  full  of  grace,  appearing  to  say,  **Thou  art  my  God, 
even  from  the  day  of  my  birth." 

In  the  priory,  moreover,  were  poets  who  composed  hymns 
in  Latin,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  in  honor  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  Mary,  and  amongst  the  company  was  even  a  brother 
from  Picardy  who  sang  the  miracles  of  Our  Lady  in  rhymed 
verse  and  in  the  vulgar^  tongue. 

5.  One  of  th^  books  of  the  Old  Testament,  sometimes  called  the 
Song  of  Solomon.  The  reference  to  the  Garden  Enclosed  will  be  found 
in  iv  :12  of  that  Book. 

6.  The  vulgar  tongue  of  any  land  is  that  spoken  by  the  common 
people.     Here,  of  course,  it  was  French,  perhaps  even  a  dialect. 


THE  JUGGLER  OF  NOTRE  DAME  289 

Being  a  witness  of  this  emulation  in  praise  and  the  glo- 
rious harvest  of  their  labors,  Barnaby  mourned  his  own 
ignorance  and  simplicity. 

"Alas !"  he  sighed,  as  he  took  his  solitary  walk  in  the 
shelterless  garden  of  the  monastery,  "wretched  wight  that 
I  am,  to  be  unable,  like  my  brothers,  worthily  to  praise  the 
Holy  Mother  of  God,  to  whom  I  have  vowed  my  whole 
heart's  affection.  Alas !  alas !  I  am  but  a  rough  man  and 
unskilled  in  the  arts,  and  I  can  render  you  in  service,  blessed 
Lady,  neither  edifying  sermons,  nor  treatises  set  out  in 
order  according  to  rule,  nor  ingenious  paintings,  nor  statues 
truthfully  sculptured,  nor  verses  whose  march  is  measured 
to  the  beat  of  feet.     No  gift  have  I,  alas  !'* 

After  this  fashion  he  groaned  and  gave  himself  up  to 
sorrow.  But  one  evening,  when  the  monks  were  spending 
their  hour  of  liberty  in  conversation,  he  heard  one  of  them 
tell  the  tale  of  a  religious  man  who  could  repeat  nothing 
other  than  the  Ave  Maria.  This  poor  man  was  despised  for 
his  ignorance;  but  after  his  death  there  issued  forth  from 
his  mouth  five  roses  in  honor  of  the  five  letters  of  the  name 
Mary   [Marie],  and  thus  his  sanctity  was  made  manifest. 

Whilst  he  listened  to  this  narrative  Barnaby  marveled 
yet  once  again  at  the  loving  kindness  of  the  Virgin ;  but  the 
lesson  of  that  blessed  death  did  not  avail  to  console  him, 
for  his  heart  overflowed  with  zeal,  and  he  longed  to  advance 
the  glory  of  his  Lady,  who  is  in  heaven. 

How  to  compass  this  he  sought  but  could  find  no  way, 
and  day  by  day  he  became  the  more  cast  down,  when  one 
morning  he  awakened  filled  with  joy,  hastened  to  the  chapel, 
and  remained  there  alone  for  more  than  an  hour.  After 
dinner  he  returned  to  the  chapel  once  more. 

And,  starting  from  that  moment,  he  repaired  daily  to  the 
chapel  at  such  hours  as  it  was  deserted,  and  spent  within 
it  a  good  part  of  the  time  which  the  other  monks  devoted  to 

10 


290  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

the  liberal  and  mechanic  arts.  His  sadness  vanished,  nor 
did  he  any  longer  groan. 

A  demeanor  so  strange  awakened  the  curiosity  of  the 
monks. 

These  began  to  ask  one  another  for  what  purpose  Brother 
Barnaby  could  be  indulging  so  persistently  in  retreat. 

The  prior,  whose  duty  it  is  to  let  nothing  escape  him  in 
the  behavior  of  his  children  in  religion,  resolved  to  keep 
a  watch  over  Barnaby  during  his  withdrawals  to  the  chapel. 
One  day,  then,  when  he  was  shut  up  there  after  his  custom, 
the  prior,  accompanied  by  two  of  the  older  monks,  went  to 
discover  through  the  chinks  in  the  door  what  was  going  on 
within  the  chapel. 

They  saw  Barnaby  before  the  altar  of  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
head  downwards,  with  his  feet  in  the  air,  and  he  was  jug- 
gling with  six  balls  of  copper  and  a  dozen  knives.  In  honor 
of  the  Holy  Mother  of  God  he  was  performing  those  feats 
which  aforetime  had  won  him  most  renown.  Not  recogniz- 
ing that  the  simple  fellow  was  thus  placing  at  the  service 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin  his  knowledge  and  skill,  the  two  old 
monks  exclaimed  against  the  sacrilege. 

The  prior  was  aware  how  stainless  was  Barnaby 's  soul, 
but  he  concluded  that  he  had  been  seized  with  madness. 
They  were  all  three  preparing  to  lead  him  swiftly  from  the 
chapel,  when  they  saw  the  Blessed  Virgin  descend  the  steps 
of  the  altar  and  advance  to  wipe  away  with  a  fold  of  her 
azure  robe  the  sweat  which  was  dropping  from  her  juggler's 
forehead. 

Then  the  prior,  falling  upon  his  face  upon  the  pavement, 
uttered  these  words : 

"Blessed  are  the  simple-hearted,  for  they  shall  see  God." 

"Amen!**  responded  the  old  brethren,  and  kissed  the 
ground. 


BAZIN 

(1853-         ) 

Rene  Bazin  was  born  in  1853  near  the  city  of  Angers,  in 
eastern  France.  He  is  still  living  (1918).  He  was  sent  to 
Paris  to  study  law  and  after  completing  his  course  he  re- 
turned to  Angers,  where  he  became  a  professor  of  law  in 
the  University  of  that  city.  Although  Bazin  spends  several 
months  every  winter  in  Paris,  the  lure  of  the  boulevards 
has  never  been  strong  enough  to  blunt  his  sensibilities  for  the 
delights  of  the  country.  He  is  a  genuine  enthusiast  about 
nature,  and,  as  he  says  himself,  he  loves  to  watch  for  the 
first  signs  of  spring  in  the  swelling  buds  and  to  listen  for 
the  first  songs  of  the  returning  birds.  He  is  entirely  at  home 
among  the  peasants  and  the  laborers  of  his  part  of  the  coun- 
try and  finds  the  themes  of  his  stories  among  them. 

Bazin  appeals  to  the  English  reader  because  of  his  protest 
against  certain  modes  in  French  fiction,  especially  its  hard 
naturalism,  found  obj  ectionable  by  many  who  live  elsewhere 
than  on  the  continent.  He  does  not  believe  in  the  realistic 
methods  that  were  in  vogue  in  the  eighties,  when  he  began  to 
publish,  and  is  particularly  opposed  to  that  type  of  story 
about  country  life  which  is  written  solely  for  the  amusement 
of  Parisians.  In  his  long  stories  the  dominant  note  is 
usually  something  pertaining  to  the  life  and  problems  of 
the  laboring  classes,  and  love  as  a  motive  is  usually  second- 
ary. Like  Anatole  France,  he  believes  that  in  the  not  dis- 
tant future  there  will  be  a  general  leveling  of  classes,  and 
that  it  is  no  more  than  fitting  that  the  higher  class  know  and 
understand  the  life  and  ideals  of  the  lower. 

Most  of  Bazin's  stories  are  either  long  novels  or  what,  for 
want  of  a  better  term,  are  called  novelettes.  He  has  also 
written  books  of  travel  in  very  pleasing  vein,  but  his  strength 

291 


292  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

lies  in  his  fiction.  Though  he  has  not  done  much  in  the  short 
story^  The  Birds  in  the  Letter-Boa;,  in  this  volume  by  the 
kind  permission  of  The  Frank  A.  Munsey  Co.,  N.  Y.,  is 
an  excellent  story.  His  most  recent  work  is  a  collection  of 
short  sketches  and  stories  dealing  with  the  Great  War,  none 
of  them,  however,  of  special  merit.  Bazin's  style  and  mate- 
rial are  very  agreeable,  and  he  is  an  author  who  deserves 
to  be  better  known  by  English  readers. 


THE  BIRDS  IN  THE  LETTER-BOX 

By  RENfi   BAZIN 

Nothing  can  describe  the  peace  that  surrounded  the 
country  parsonage.  The  parish  was  small,  moderately 
honest,  prosperous,  and  was  used  to  the  old  priest,  who 
had  ruled  it  for  thirty  years.  The  town  ended  at  the  parson- 
age, and  there  began  meadows  which  sloped  down  to  the 
river  and  were  filled  in  summer  with  the  perfume  of  flowers 
and  all  the  music  of  the  earth.  Behind  the  great  house  a 
kitchen-garden  encroached  on  the  meadow.  The  first  ray  of 
the  siin  was  for  it,  and  so  was  the  last.  Here  the  cherries 
ripened  in  May,  and  the  currants  often  earlier,  and  a  week 
before  Assumption,^  usually,  you  could  not  pass  within  a 
hundred  feet  without  breathing  among  the  hedges  the  heavy 
odor  of  the  melons. 

But  you  must  not  think  that  the  abbe  of  St.  Philemon 
was  a  gourmand.  He  had  reached  the  age  when  appetite 
is  only  a  memory.  His  shoulders  were  bent,  his  face  was 
wrinkled,  he  had  two  little  gray  eyes,  one  of  which  could 
not  see  any  longer,  and  he  was  so  deaf  in  one  ear  that  if 
you  happened  to  be  on  that  side  you  just  had  to  get  round 
on  the  other. 

Mercy,  no !  he  did  not  eat  all  the  fruits  in  his  orchard. 

1.  August  15. 


i 


BIRDS  IN  THE  LETTER  BOX  293 

The  boys  got  their  share — and  a  big  share — ^but  the  biggest 
share,  by  all  odds,  was  eaten  by  the  birds — the  blackbirds, 
who  lived  there  comfortably  all  the  year,  and  sang  in  return 
the  best  they  could ;  the  orioles,  pretty  birds  of  passage,  who 
helped  them  in  summer,  and  the  sparrows,  and  the  warblers 
of  every  variety;  and  the  tomtits,  swarms  of  them,  with 
feathers  as  thick  as  your  finger,  and  they  hung  on  the 
branches  and  pecked  at  a  grape  or  scratched  a  pear — veri- 
table little  beasts  of  prey,  whose  only  "thank  you"  was  a 
shrill  cry  like  a  saw. 

Even  to  them,  old  age  had  made  the  abbe  of  St.  Philemon 
indulgent.  **The  beasts  cannot  correct  their  faults,"  he  used 
to  say;  "if  I  got  angry  at  them  for  not  changing,  I'd  have 
to  get  angry  with  a  good  many  of  my  parishioners !" 

And  he  contented  himself  with  clapping  his  hands  together 
loud  when  he  went  into  his  orchard,  so  he  should  not  see  too 
much  stealing. 

Then  there  was  a  spreading  of  wings,  as  if  all  the  silly 
flowers  cut  off  by  a  great  wind  were  flying  away ;  gray,  and 
white,  and  yellow,  and  mottled,  a  short  flight,  a  rustling  of 
leaves,  and  then  quiet  for  five  minutes.  But  what  minute^ ! 
Fancy,  if  you  can,  that  there  was  not  one  factory  in  the 
village,  not  a  weaver  or  a  blacksmith,  and  that  the  noise 
of  men  with  their  horses  and  cattle,  spreading  over  the  wide, 
distant  plains,  melted  into  the  whispering  of  the  breeze  and 
was  lost.  Mills  were  unknown,  the  roads  were  little  fre- 
quented, the  railroads  were  very  far  away.  Indeed,  if  the 
ravagers  of  his  garden  had  repented  for  long  the  abbe  would 
have  fallen  asleep  of  the  silence  over  his  breviary. 

Fortunately,  their  return  was  prompt;  a  sparrow  led  the 
way,  a  jay  followed,  and  then  the  whole  swarm  was  back 
at  work.  And  the  abbe  could  walk  up  and  down,  close  his 
book  or  open  it,  and  murmur :  "They'll  not  leave  me  a  berry 
this  year!" 


294  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

It  made  no  difference;  not  a  bird  left  his  prey,  an}^  more! 
than  if  the  good  abbe  had  been  a  cone-shaped  pear-tree,  with 
thick  leaves,  balancing  himself  on  the  gravel  of  the  vv^alk. 

The  birds  know  that  those  who  complain  take  no  action. 
Every  year  they  built  their  nests  around  the  parsonage  of 
St.  Philemon  in  greater  numbers  than  anywhere  else.  The 
best  places  were  quickly  taken,  the  hollows  in  the  trees, 
the  holes  in  the  walls,  the  forks  of  the  apples-trees  and  the 
elms,  and  you  could  see  a  brown  beak,  like  the  point  of  a 
sword,  sticking  out  of  a  whisp  of  straw  between  all  the 
rafters  of  the  roof.  One  year,  v/hen  all  the  places  were 
taken,  I  suppose,  a  tomtit,  in  her  embarrassment,  spied  the 
slit  of  the  letter-box  protected  by  its  little  roof,  at  the  right 
of  the  parsonage  gate.  She  slipped  in,  was  satisfied  with  the 
result  of  her  explorations,  and  brought  the  materials  to 
build  a  nest.  There  was  nothing  she  neglected  that  would 
make  it  warm,  neither  the  feathers,  nor  the  horsehair,  nor 
the  wool,  nor  even  the  scales  of  lichens  that  cover  old  wood. 

One  morning  the  housekeeper  came  in,  perfectly  furious, 
carrying  a  paper.  She  had  found  it  under  the  laurel  bush, 
at  the  foot  of  the  garden. 

"Look,  sir,  a  paper,  and  dirty,  too !  They  are  up  to  fine 
doings !" 

"Who,  Philomene.'^" 

"Your  miserable  birds;  all  the  birds  that  you  let  stay 
here!  Pretty  soon  they'll  be  building  their  nests  in  your 
soup-tureens !" 

"I  haven't  but  one." 

"Haven't  they  got  the  idea  of  laying  their  eggs  in  your 
letter-box !  I  opened  it  because  the  postman  rang  and  that 
doesn't  happen  every  day.  It  was  full  of  straw  and  horse- 
hair and  spiders'  webs,  with  enough  feathers  to  make  a  quilt, 
and,  in  the  midst  of  all  that,  a  beast  that  I  didn't  see  hissed  £ 
at  me  like  a  viper !" 


BIRDS  IN  THE  LETTER  Bpx      »  295 

The  abbe  of  St.  Philemon  began  to  laugh  like  a  grand- 
father when  he  hears  of  a  baby's  pranks. 

"That  must  be  a  tomtit/*  said  he;  "they  are  the  only 
birds  clever  enough  to  think  of  it.  Be  careful  not  to  touch 
it^  Philomene.*' 

*'No  fear  of  that;  it  is  not  nice  enough!" 

The  abbe  went  hastily  through  the  garden,  the  house,  the 
court  planted  mvith  asparagTis,  till  he  came  to  the  wall  which 
separated  the  parsonage  from  the  public  road,  and  there  he 
carefully  opened  the  letter-box,  in  which  there  would  have 
been  room  enough  for  all  the  mail  received  in  a  year  by  all 
the  inhabitants  of  the  village. 

Sure  enough,  he  was  not  mistaken.  The  shape  of  the  nest, 
like  a  pine-cone,  its  color  and  texture,  and  the  lining,  which 
showed  through,  made  him  smile.  He  heard  the  hiss  of  the 
brooding  bird  inside,  and  replied : 

"Rest  easy,  little  one;  I  know  you.  Twenty-one  days  to 
hatch  your  eggs  and  three  weeks  to  raise  your  family;  that 
is  what  you  want?  You  shall  have  it.  I'll  take  away  the 
key." 

He  did  take  away  the  key,  and  when  he  had  finished  the 
morning's  duties — visits  to  his  parishioners  who  were  ill  or 
in  trouble;  instructions  to  a  boy  who  was  to  pick  him  out 
some  fruit  at  the  village;  a  climb  up  the  steeple  because  a 
storm  had  loosened  some  stones — he  remembered  the  tomtit 
and  began  to  be  afraid  she  would  be  troubled  by  the  arrival 
of  a  letter  while  she  was  hatching  her  eggs. 

The  fear  was  almost  groundless,  because  the  people  of 
St.  Philemon  did  not  receive  any  more  letters  than  they  sent. 
The  postman  had  little  to  do  on  his  rounds  but  to  eat  soup 
at  one  house,  to  have  a  drink  at  another,  and,  once  in  a  long 
while,  to  leave  a  letter  from  some  conscript,  or  a  bill  for 
taxes  at  some  distant  farm.  Nevertheless,  since  St.  Robert's 
Day  was  near,  which,  a^s  you  know,  comes  on  the  29th  of 


^96 


FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 


April,  the  abbe  thought  it  wise  to  write  to  the  only  three 
friends  worthy  of  that  name,  whom  death  had  left  him,  a 
layman  and  two  priests:  "My  friend,  do  not  congratulate 
me  on  my  saint's  day  this  year,  if  you  please.  It  would 
inconvenience  me  to  receive  a  letter  at  this  time.  Later  I 
shall  explain,  and  you  will  appreciate  my  reasons." 

They  thought  that  his  eye  was  worse,  and  did  not  write. 

The  abbe  of  St.  Philemon  was  delighted.  For  three  weeks 
he  never  entered  his  gate  one  time  without  thinking  of  the 
eggs,  speckled  with  pink,  that  were  lying  in  the  letter-box, 
and  when  the  twenty-first  day  came  round  he  bent  down  and 
listened  with  his  ear  close  to  the  slit  of  the  box.  Then  he 
stood  up,  beaming: 

**I  hear  them  chirp,  Philomene ;  I  hear  them  chirp.  They 
owe  their  lives  to  me,  sure  enough,  and  they'll  not  be  the 
ones  to  regret  it  any  more  than  I." 

He  had  in  his  bosom  the  heart  of  a  child  that  had  never 
grown  old. 

Now,  at  the  same  time,  in  the  green  room  of  the  palace,  at 
the  chief  town  of  the  department,  the  bishop  was  deliber- 
ating over  the  appointments  to  be  made  with  his  regular 
councilors,  his  two  grand  vicars,  the  dean  of  the  chapter, 
the  secretary-general  of  the  palace,  and  the  director  of  the 
great  academy.  After  he  had  appointed  several  vicars  and 
priests,  he  made  this  suggestion : 

**Gentlemen  of  the  council,  I  have  in  mind  a  candidate 

suitable  in  all  respects  for  the  parish  of  X ;  but  I  think 

it  would  be  well,  at  least,  to  offer  that  charge  and  that  honor 
to  one  of  our  oldest  priests,  the  abbe  of  St.  Philemon.  He 
will  undoubtedly  refuse  it,  and  his  modesty,  no  less  than  his 
age,  will  be  the  cause ;  but  we  shall  have  shown,  as  /ar  as 
we  could,  our  appreciation  of  his  virtues." 

The  five  councilors  approved  unanimously,  and  that  very 
evening  a  letter  was  sent  from  the  palace,  signed  by  the 


BIRDS  IN  THE  LETTER  BOX  297 

bishop,  and  which  contained  in  a  postscript:  "Answer  at 
once,  my  dear  abbe;  or,  better,  come  to  see  me,  because  I 
must  submit  my  appointments  to  the  government  within  three 
days." 

The  letter  arrived  at  St.  Philemon  the  very  day  the  tom- 
tits were  hatched.  The  postman  had  difficulty  in  slipping  it 
into  the  slit  of  the  box,  but  it  disappeared  inside  and  lay, 
touching  the  base  of  the  nest,  like  a  white  pavement  at  the 
bottom  of  the  dark  chamber. 

The  time  came  when  the  tiny  points  on  the  wings  of  the 
little  tomtits  began  to  be  covered  with  down.  There  were 
fourteen  of  them,  and  they  twittered  and  staggered  on  their 
little  feet,  with  their  beaks  open  up  to  their  eyes,  never 
ceasing,  from  morning  till  night,  to  wait  for  food,  eat  it, 
digest  it,  and  demand  more.  That  was  the  first  period,  when 
the  baby  birds  hadn't  any  sense.  But  in  birds  it  doesn't 
last  long.  Very  soon  they  quarreled  in  the  nest,  which  began 
to  break  with  the  fluttering  of  their  wings,  then  they  tumbled 
out  of  it  and  walked  along  the  side  of  the  box,  peeped 
through  the  slit  at  the  big  world  outside,  and  at  last  they 
ventured  out. 

The  abbe  of  St.  Philemon,  with  a  neighboring  priest, 
attended  this  pleasant  garden  party.  When  the  little  ones 
appeared  beneath  the  roof  of  the  box — two,  three — together, 
and  took  their  flight,  came  back,  started  again,  like  bees  at 
the  door  of  a  hive,  he  said: 

**Behold,  a  babyhood  ended  and  a  good  work  accom- 
plished.  They  are  hardy  and  strong,  every  one." 

The  next  day,  during  his  hour  of  leisure  after  dinner,  the 
abbe  came  to  the  box  with  the  key  in  his  hand.  "Tap,  tap," 
he  went.  There  was  no  answer.  "I  thought  so,"  said  he. 
Then  he  opened  the  box,  and,  mingled  with  the  debris  of  the 
nest,  the  letter  fell  into  his  hands. 

"Good  Heavens !"  said  he,  recognizing  the  writing.     **A 


298  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

letter  from  the  bishop ;  and  in  what  a  state  !  How  long  has 
it  been  here?" 

His  cheek  grew  pale  as  he  read. 

*Thilomene,  harness  Robin  quickly." 

She  came  to  see  what  was  the  matter  before  obeying. 

"What  have  you  there^  sir?" 

"The  bishop  has  been  waiting  for  me  three  weeks !" 

"YouVe  missed  your  chance,"  said  the  old  woman. 

The  abbe  was  away  until  the  next  evening.  When  he 
came  back  he  had  a  peaceful  air,  but  sometimes  peace  is  not 
attained  without  effort,  and  we  have  to  struggle  to  keep  it. 
When  he  had  helped  to  unharness  Robin  and  had  given  him 
some  hay,  had  changed  his  cassock  and  unpacked  his  box, 
from  which  he  took  a  dozen  little  packages  of  things  bought 
on  his  visit  to  the  city,  it  was  the  very  time  that  the  birds 
assembled  in  the  branches  to  tell  each  other  about  the  day. 
There  had  been  a  shower  and  the  drops  still  fell  from  the 
leaves  as  they  were  shaken  by  these  bohemian  couples  look- 
ing for  a  good  place  to  spend  the  night. 

Recognizing  their  friend  and  master  as  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  gravel  path,  they  came  down,  fluttered  about  him, 
making  an  unusually  loud  noise,  and  the  tomtits,  the  four- 
teen of  the  nest,  whose  feathers  were  still  not  quite  grown, 
essayed  their  first  spirals  about  the  pear-trees  and  their  first 
cries  in  the  open  air. 

The  abbe  of  St.  Philemon  watched  them  with  a  fatherly 
eye,  but  his  tenderness  was  sad,  as  we  look  at  things  that 
have  cost  us  dear. 

"Well,  my  little  ones,  without  me  you  would  not  be  here, 
and  without  you  I  would  be  dead.  I  do  not  regret  it  at  all, 
but  don't  insist.   Your  thanks  are  too  noisy." 

He  clapped  his  hands  impatiently. 

He  had  never  been  ambitious,  that  is  very  sure,  and,  even 
at  that  moment,  he  told  the  truth.     Nevertheless,  the  next 


BIRDS  IN  THE  LETTER  BOX  299 

day^  after  a  night  spent  in  talking  to  Philomene,  he  said  to 
her: 

"Next  year,  Philomene,  if  the  tomtit  comes  back,  let  me 
know.     It  is  decidedly  inconvenient." 

But  the  tomtit  never  came  again — and  neither  did  the 
letter  from  the  bishop ! 


CLARETIE 

(1840-         ) 

Arsene  Arnaud^  who  writes  under  the  pen  name  Jules 
Claretie,  was  born  in  1840  at  Limoges,  in  southern  France. 
He  was  educated  in  Paris.  He  began  his  literary  career  as 
a  journalist,  acting  as  war  correspondent  in  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war.  Claretie  has  had  a  long  and  varied  career 
both  as  a  writer  and  as  editor  of  Le  Temps,  He  also  has 
written  plays  and  served  as  dramatic  critic  for  the  foremost 
Parisian  journals;  his  ability  in  this  direction  secured  him 
the  appointment  as  director  of  the  Comedie  Fran9aise  in 
1885,  a  post  which  he  held  creditably  for  many  years. 

Claretie  has  written  many  novels  and  tales.  Among  his 
novels  are:  L' Assassin,  1866;  Madeleine  Berlin,  1868;  Le 
Train  17,  1877;  Monsieur  le  Ministre,  1882;  and  L'Accusa- 
teur.  He  has  also  written  extensively  on  historical  subjects : 
Cinq  ans  Apres,  1877;  Les  Prussiens  chez  eux,  1872;  and 
La  Vie  a  Paris,  1896.  In  France  and  among  French  readers 
in  other  countries  Claretie  enjoys  a  generous  popularity; 
unfortunately,  however,  few  of  his  works  have  been  trans- 
lated into  English.  Practically  all  he  wrote  is  of  the  kind 
that  is  read,  enjoyed,  and  then  forgotten,  much  like  the 
ordinary  so-called  "popular  novel'*  of  our  own  country.  His 
creative  talent  has  suffered  through  over-production,  for 
Claretie  has  always  remained  a  professional  journalist. 

The  story  of  Boum-Boum,  in  this  book,  shows  him  a  mas- 
ter in  a  difficult  field,  that  of  writing  about  children  without 
being  either  sentimental  or  silly.  The  directness  of  his  style 
is  due  to  his  long  j  ournalistic  career. 


300 


BOUM-BOUM 1 

By  JULES  CLARETIE 

The  child  was  lying  stretched  out  in  his  little  white  bed, 
and  his  eyes,  grown  large  through  fever,  looked  straight 
before  him,  always  with  the  strange  fixity  of  the  sick,  who 
already  perceive  what  the  living  do  not  see. 

The  mother  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  torn  by  suffering  and 
wringing  her  hands  to  keep  herself  from  crying,  anxiously 
followed  the  progress  of  the  disease  on  the  poor,  emaciated 
face  of  the  little  being.  The  father,  an  honest  workman, 
kept  back  the  tears  which  burned  his  eyelids. 

The  day  broke  clear  and  mild,  a  beautiful  morning  in 
June,  and  lighted  up  the  narrow  room  in  the  street  of  the 
Abessess  where  little  Fran9ois,  the  child  of  Jacques  and 
Madeleine  Legrand,  lay  dying.  He  was  seven  years  old 
and  was  very  fair,  very  rosy,  and  so  lively.  Not  three 
weeks  ago  he  was  gay  ds  a  sparrow ;  but  a  fever  had  \seized 
him  and  they  had  brought  him  home  one  evening  from  the 
public  school  with  his  head  heavy  and  his  hands  very  hot. 
From  that  time  he  had  been  here  in  this  bed,  and  some- 
times, in  his  delirium,  when  he  looked  at  his  little  well- 
blackened  shoes,  which  his  mother  had  carefully  placed  in 
a  corner  on  a  board,  he  said : 

"You  can  throw  them  away  now,  little  Fran9ois'  shoes ! 
Little  Fran9ois  will  not  put  them  on  any  more !  Little 
Fran9ois  will  not  go  to  school  any  more — never,  never !" 

Then  the  father  cried  out  and  said:  "Wilt  thou  be  still!" 

And  the  mother,  very  pale,  buried  her  blond  head  in  his 

pillow  so  that  little  Fran9ois  could  not  hear  her  weep. 

1.  Translated  by  Mary  Symonds.  Reprinted  by  the  kind  permission 
of  Current  Opinion,  New  York. 

301 


302  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

This  night  the  child  had  not  been  delirious;  but  for  the 
two  days  past  the  doctor  had  been  uneasy  over  an  odd  sort 
of  prostration  which  resembled  abandon^  it  was  as  if  at  seven 
years  the  sick  one  already  felt  the  weariness  of  life.  He 
was  tired^  silent,  sad,  and  tossed  his  little  head  about  on  the 
bolster.  He  had  no  longer  a  smile  on  his  poor,  thin  lips,  and 
with  haggard  eyes  he  sought,  seeing  they  knew  not  what, 
something  there  beyond,  very  far  off — 

In  Heaven!     Perhaps!  thought  Madeleine,  trembling. 

When  they  wished  him  to  take  some  medicine,  some  sirup, 
or  a  little  soup,  he  refused.     He  refused  everything. 

**Dost  thou  wish  anything,  Fran9ois  ?'* 

"No,  I  wish  nothing!*' 

**We  must  draw  him  out  of  this,"  the  doctor  said.  "This 
torpor  frightens  me! — you  are  the  father  and  the  mother, 
you  know  your  child  well —  Seek  for  something  to  re- 
animate this  little  body,  recall  to  earth  this  spirit  which 
runs  after  the  clouds  V* 

Then  he  went  away.     - 

"Seek!" 

Yes,  without  doubt  they  knew  him  well,  their  Fran9ois, 
these  worthy  people!  They  knew  how  it  amused  him,  the 
little  one,  to  plunder  the  hedges  on  Sunday  and  to  come  back 
to  Paris  on  his  father's  shoulders  laden  with  hawthorne — 
Jacques  Legrand  had  bought  some  images,  some  gilded  sol- 
diers, and  some  Chinese  shadows  for  Fran9ois ;  he  cut  them 
out,  put  them  on  the  child's  bed  and  made  them  dance  before 
the  bewildered  eyes  of  the  little  one,  and  with  a  desire  to 
weep  himself  he  tried  to  make  him  laugh. 

"Dost  thou  see,  Fran9ois,  it  is  the  broken  bridge ! —  And 
that  is  a  general! —  Thou  rememberest  we  saw  one,  a 
general,  once,  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne?^ —  If  thou 
takest  thy  medicine  well  I  will  buy  thee  a  real  one  with  a 

2.  A  well-known  public  park  in  Paris. 


BOUM-BOUM  303 

cloth  tunic  and  gold  epaulets —  Dost  thou  wish  for  him, 
the  general,  say?" 

"No,"  replied  the  child,  with  the  dry  voice  which  fever 
gives.  - 

**Dost  thou  wish  a  pistol,  some  marbles — a  cross-bow?" 

"No,"  repeated  the  little  voice,  clearly  and  almost  cruelly. 

And  to  all  that  they  said  to  him,  to  all  the  jumping- 
jacks,  to  all  the  balloons  that  they  promised  him,  the  little 
voice — while  the  parents  looked  at  each  other  in  despair — 
responded : 

-No."— "No."— "No  r 

"But  what  dost  thou  wish,  my  Fran9ois?"  asked  the 
mother.  "Let  us  see,  there  is  certainly  something  thou 
wouldst  like  to  have —  Tell  it,  tell  it  to  me!  to  me! — thy 
mother!"  And  she  laid  her  cheek  on  the  pillow  of  the  sick 
boy  and  whispered  this  softly  in  his  ear  as  if  it  were  a 
secret.  Then  the  child,  with  an  odd  accent,  straightening 
himself  up  in  his  bed  and  stretching  out  his  hand  eagerly 
toward  some  invisible  thing,  replied  suddenly  in  an  ardent 
tone,  at  the  same  time  supplicating  and  imperative: 

"I  want  Boum-Boum!" 

Boum-Boum. 

Poor  Madeleine  threw  a  frightened  look  toward  her  hus- 
band. What  did  the  little  one  say?  Was  it  the  delirium, 
the  frightful  delirium,  which  had  come  back  again? 

Boum-Boum ! 

She  did  not  know  what  that  meant,  and  she  was  afraid 
of  these  singular  words  which  the  child  repeated  with  a 
sickly  persistence,  as  if,  not  having  dared  until  now  to  for- 
mulate his  dream,  he  grasped  the  present  time  with  invinc- 
ible obstinacy: 

"Yes,  Boum-Boum !    Boum-Boum !    I  want  Boum-Boum !" 

The  mother  had  seized  Jacques's  hand  and  spoke  very 
low,  as  if  demented. 


304  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"What  does  that  mean,  Jacques  ?    He  is  lost  V* 

But  the  father  had  on  his  rough,  workingman*s  face  a 
smile  almost  happy,  but  astonished  too,  the  smile  of  a  con- 
demned man  who  foresees  a  possibility  of  liberty. 

Boum-Boum  !  He  remembered  well  the  morning  of  Easter 
Monday  when  he  had  taken  Frangois  to  the  circus.  He  had 
still  in  his  ears  the  child's  outburst  of  joy,  the  happy  laugh 
of  the  amused  boy,  when  the  clown,  the  beautiful  clown, 
all  spangled  with  gold  and  with  a  great  gilded  butterfly 
sparkling,  many-colored,  on  the  back  of  his  black  costume, 
skipped  across  the  track,  gave  the  trip  to  a  rider  or  held 
himself  motionless  and  stiff  on  the  sand,  his  head  down 
and  his  feet  in  the  air.  Or,  again,  he  tossed  up  to  the  chan- 
delier some  soft,  felt  hats  which  he  caught  adroitly  on  his 
head,  where  they  formed,  one  by  one,  a  pyramid;  and  at 
each  jest,  like  a  refrain  brightening  up  his  intelligent  and 
droll  face,  he  uttered  the  same  cry,  repeated  the  same  word, 
accompanied  now  and  then  by  a  burst  from  the  orchestra: 
Boum-Boum ! 

Boum-Boum!  and  each  time  that  it  rang  out,  Boum- 
Boum,  the  audience  burst  into  hurrahs  and  the  little  one 
joined  in  with  his  hearty  little  laugh.  Boum-Boum!  It 
was  this  Boum-Boum,  it  was  the  clown  of  the  circus,  it  was 
this  favorite  of  a  large  part  of  the  city,  that  little  Fran9ois 
wished  to  see  and  to  have  and  whom  he  could  not  have  and 
could  not  see  since  he  was  lying  here  without  strength  in 
his  white  bed. 

In  the  evening  Jacques  Legrand  brought  the  child  a 
jointed  clown,  all  stitched  with  spangles,  which  he  had 
bought  in  a  passageway  and  which  was  very  expensive. 
It  was  the  price  of  four  of  his  working  days !  But  he  would 
have  given  twenty,  thirty— he  would  have  given  the  price 
of  a  year's  labor  to  bring  back  a  smile  to  the  pale  lips  of 
the  sick  child. 


BOUM-BOUM  305 

The  child  looked  at  the  plaything  a  moment  as  it  glistened 
on  the  white  cover  of  the  bed,  then  said,  sadly : 

"It  is  not  Boum-Boum! —     I  want  to  see  Boum-Boum!" 

Ah!  if  Jacques  could  have  wrapped  him  up  in  his  blan- 
kets, could  have  carried  him  to  the  circus,  could  have  shown 
him  the  clown  dancing  under  the  lighted  chandelier,  and 
have  said  to  him.  Look!  He  did  better,  Jacques,  he  went 
to  the  circus,  demanded  the  address  of  the  clown,  and 
timidly,  his  legs  shaking  with  fear,  he  climbed,  one  by  one, 
the  steps  which  led  to  the  apartment  of  the  artist,  at  Mont- 
martre.^  It  was  very  bold,  this  that  Jacques  was  going  to 
do !  But  after  all  the  comedians  go  to  sing  and  recite  their 
monologues  in  drawing-rooms,  at  the  houses  of  the  great 
lords.  Perhaps  the  clown — oh!  if  he  only  would — would 
consent  to  come  and  say  good-day  to  Fran9ois.  No  matter ; 
how  would  they  receive  him,  Jacques  Legrand,  here  at 
Boum-Boum's  house? 

He  was  no  longer  Boum-Boum!  He  was  Monsieur 
Moreno,  and,  in  the  artistic  dwelling,  the  books,  the  engrav- 
ings, the  elegance  was  like  a  choice  decoration  around  the 
charming  man  who  received  Jacques  in  his  office  like  that 
of  a  doctor. 

Jacques  looked,  but  did  not  recognize  the  clown,  and 
turned  and  twisted  his  felt  hat  between  his  fingers.  The 
other  waited.  Then  the  father  excused  himself.  *'It  was 
astonishing,  what  he  came  there  to  ask,  it  could  not  be — • 
pardon,  excuse —  But  in  short,  it  was  concerning  the  little 
one —  A  nice  little  one,  monsieur.  And  so  intelligent! 
Always  the  first  at  school,  except  in  arithmetic,  which  he 
did  not  understand —  A  dreamer,  this  little  one,  do  you 
see !     Yes,  a  dreamer.    And  the  proof — wait — the  proof — " 

Jacques  now  hesitated,  stammered;  but  he  gathered  up 
his  courage  and  said  briskly: 

3,  A  section  of  Paris  in  which  artists  and  literary  men  live. 


306  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

"The  proof  is  that  he  wishes  to  see  you,  that  he  thinks 
only  of  you,  and  that  you  are  there  before  him  like  a  star 
which  he  would  like  to  have,  and  that  he  looks — " 

When  he  had  finished,  the  father  was  deadly  pale,  and  he 
had  great  drops  on  his  forehead.  He  dared  not  look  at  the 
clown,  who  remained  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  workman. 
And  what  was  he  going  to  say,  this  Boum-Boum?  Was  he 
going  to  dismiss  him,  take  him  for  a  fool  and  put  him  out 
the  door.'^ 

"You  live.'^''  asked  Boum-Boum. 

"Oh !  very  near !    Street  of  the  Abessess  \" 

"Come!"  said  the  other.  "Your  boy  wants  to  see  Boum- 
Boum?    Ah,  well,  he  is  going  to  see  Boum-Boum." 

When  the  door  opened  and  showed  the  clown,  Jacques 
Legrand  cried  out  joyfully  to  his  son: 

"Fran9ois,  be  happy,  child!  See,  here  he  is,  Boum- 
Boum  !" 

A  look  of  great  joy  came  over  the  child's  face.  He  raised 
himself  on  his  mother's  arm  and  turned  his  head  toward  the 
two  men  who  approached,  questioning,  for  a  moment,  who 
it  was  by  the  side  of  his  father;  this  gentleman  in  an  over- 
coat, whose  good,  pleasant  face  he  did  not  know.  When 
they  said  to  him,  "It  is  Boum-Boum  V  he  slowly  fell  back 
on  the  pillow,  and  remained  there,  his  eyes  fixed,  his  beauti- 
ful large,  blue  eyes,  which  looked  beyond  the  walls  of  the 
little  room,  and  were  always  seeking  the  spangles  and  the 
butterfly  of  Boum-Boum,  like  a  lover  who  pursues  his 
dream. 

"No,"  replied  the  child  with  a  voice  which  was  no  longer 
dry,  but  full  of  despair,  "no,  it  is  not  Boum-Boum." 

The  clown,  standing  near  the  little  bed,  threw  upon  the 
child  an  earnest  look,  very  grave,  but  of  an  inexpressible 
sweetness. 


BOUM-BOUM  307 

He  shook  his  head^  looked  at  the  anxious  father^  the 
grief-stricken  mother^  and  said,  smiling,  "He  is  right;  this 
is  not  Boum-Boum  I"  and  then  he  went  out. 

**I  cannot  see  him,  I  will  never  see  Boum-Boum  any 
more!"  repeated  the  child,  whose  little  voice  spoke  to  the 
angels.  "Boum-Boum  is  perhaps  there,  there,  where  little 
Fran9ois  will  soon  go." 

And  suddenly — it  was  only  a  half-hour  since  the  clown 
had  disappeared — ^the  door  opened  quickly,  and  in  his  black, 
spangled  clothes,  his  yellow  cap  on  his  head,  the  gilded 
butterfly  on  his  breast  and  on  his  back,  with  a  smile  as  big 
as  the  mouth  of  a  money-box,  and  a  powdered  face,  Boum- 
Boum,  the  true  Boum-Boum,  the  Boum-Boum  of  the  circus, 
the  Boum-Boum  of  the  popular  neighborhood,  the  Boum- 
Boum  of  little  Fran9ois — Boum-Boum  appeared ! 

Lying  on  his  little  white  bed,  the  child  clapped  his  thin 
little  hands,  laughing,  crying,  happy,  saved,  with  a  joy  of 
life  in  his  eyes,  and  cried  "Bravo!"  with  his  seven-year 
gaiety,  which  all  at  once  kindled  up  like  a  match: 

"Boum-Boum!  It  is  he,  it  is  he,  this  time!  Here  is 
Boum-Boum!  Long  live  Boum-Boum!  Good-day,  Boum- 
Boum." 

And  when  the  doctor  came  back,  he  found  seated  by  little 
Fran9ois'  bedside,  a  clown  with  a  pale  face,  who  made  the 
little  one  laugh  again  and  again,  and  who  said  to  the  child 
while  he  was  stirring  a  piece  of  sugar  into  a  cup  of  medicine : 

"Thou  knowest,  if  thou  dost  not  drink,  little  Fran9ois, 
Boum-Boum  will  not  come  back  any  more." 

So  the  child  dr^nk. 

"Is  it  not  good.f*" 

"Very  good ! — thanks,  Boum-Boum !" 

"Doctor,"  said  the  clown  to  the  doctor,  "do  not  be  jeal- 
ous—  It  seems  to  me  that  my  grimaces  will  do  him  as  much 
good  as  your  prescriptions !" 


308  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

The  father  and  the  mother  wept,  but  this  time  from  joy. 

Until  little  Fran9ois  was  on  his  feet  again  a  carriage 
stopped  every  day  before  the  dwelling  of  a  workman  in  the 
street  of  the  Abessess,  at  Montmartre,  and  a  man  got  out 
with  a  gay  powdered  face,  enveloped  in  an  overcoat  with  a 
collar  turned  back,  and  underneath  it  one  could  see  a  clown's 
costume. 

**What  do  I  owe  you,  monsieur?"  said  Jacques,  at  last,  to 
*;he  master-clown  when  the  child  took  his  first  walk,  "for .now 
I  owe  you  something!" 

The  clown  stretched  out  his  two  soft,  herculean  hands  to 
'.he  parents. 

"A  shake  of  the  hand !"  said  he. 

Then  placing  two  great  kisses  on  the  once  more  rosy 
cheeks  of  the  child : 

**And"  (laughing)  "permission  to  put  on  my  visiting- 
iard: 

"BouM-BouM 

"Acrobatic  Doctor  and  Physician  in  ordinary  to  little 
Frangoiil" 


LEMAITRE 

(1853-1914) 

Francois  Elie  Jules  Lemaitre  was  born  at  Vennecy, 
in  the  Department  of  Loiret^  central  France,  April  27, 
1853.  After  some  preliminary  schooling  at  home  he  went 
to  Paris  and  completed  his  studies  there.  He  was  inter- 
ested in  educational  work  and  taught  for  a  number  of 
years,  holding  positions  in  various  schools  and  colleges. 
In  1882  he  received  his  doctor's  degree  and  two  years 
later  he  abandoned  the  teaching  profession  so  that  he 
might  devote  his  whole  attention  to  literary  pursuits. 

Lemaitre  had  always  been  interested  in  literature,  as 
befitted  a  Professor  o-f  Rhetoric,  and  early  in  his  career 
began  to  contribute  poems  and  articles  to  various  journals. 
By  1879  he  was  already  attracting  attention  as  a  critic 
through  a  number  of  articles  in  the  Revue  Bleue,  especially 
one  on  Flaubert,  whom  he  had  known  well  at  Havre  while 
teaching.  A  small  volume  of  poems  made  him  known  more 
widely,  but  his  real  forte  seemed  to  lie  in  criticism,  a  field 
for  which  he  was  eminently  fitted  by  virtue  of  his  wide 
reading  and  splendid  scholarship.  For  many  years  he 
shared  high  honors  as  a  critic  with  Brunetiere,  Faguet, 
and  Doumic,  of  whom  Doumic  is  now  the  only  survivor. 
Unlike  the  others,  Lemaitre  did  not  limit  his  interest  to 
criticism  alone;  he  made  original  contributions  to  poetry, 
the  drama,  and  fiction,  with  considerable  success  in  each. 

It  is,  however,  as  a  critic  that  Lemaitre  will  be  best 
remembered.  He  kept  up  a  continuous  series  of  critical 
essays  on  the  drama  and  other  literary  subjects.  Of  the 
Impressions  de  Theatre  there  are  ten  volumes,  while  of 
the  second  series,  entitled  Les  Contemporains,  there  are 
seven  volumes. 

The  story  of  The  Siren,  selected  for  this  volume,  is  taken 
309 


310  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

from  the  first  series  of  En  Marge  des  Vieux  Livres,  The 
idea  of  the  stories  and  sketches  in  these  tVo  volumes  is 
unique;  each  one  begins  with  an  episode  or  character  from 
some  well  known  old  story  and  then  diverges  as  the  imagi- 
nation of  the  author  dictates.  The  stories  are  very  readable 
because  of  Lemaitre's  direct  style^  and  because  of  the  novelty 
of  the  underlying  idea. 


THE  SIREN  1 

By  JULES  LEMAITRE 

As  THEY  neared  the  Islet  of  the  Sirens  ^  the  wind  calmed 
down  and  the  waves  were  hushed.  The  sailors  furled  the 
sails.  Ulysses/  remembering  the  warning  counsel  of  Circe/ 
kneaded  a  lump  of  wax  in  his  sturdy  hands  and  stopped  the 
ears  of  his  companions  with  it.  They  in  turn  tied  him  to  the 
mast  and  then  struck  the  foaming  sea  with  their  oars. 

From  the  depths  of  their  grotto  the  Sirens  had  observed 
the  vessel.  When  it  came  within  range  of  their  voices  they 
came  down  to  the  shore  and  began  to  sing : 

*'Come  hither^  beloved  wanderers,  come !  No  seafarer  has 
ever  passed  our  island  without  listening  to  our  voice;  then 
they  depart  filled  with  joy,  having  learned  many  things; 
for  we  know  all  that  happens  on  the  bountiful  earth.'* 

Rising  erect  out  of  the  still  water,  their  bodies  gleaming 
and  moist,  they  made  appealing  gestures  with  their  beautiful 
arms.  And  an  irresistible  witchery  lay  in  their  voices,  soft 
as  a  milky  sea,  pervasive  as  the  odor  of  sea-weed,  tender,  and 
a  little  wistful  as  though  it  were  the  voice  of  longing. 

Ulysses  writhed  within  his  bands,  but  his  companions, 
forewarned,  only  bound  them  tighter  around  his  arms  and 
thighs,* 

1.  Translated  by  H.  C.  Schweikert. 

2.  See  Homer's  Odyssey,  Book  XII,  or  Gayley's  Classic  Myths, 


THE  SIREN  31X 

However^  one  of  the  sailors^  Euphorion  by  name^  declared 
that  even  at  the  price  of  his  life  it  was  worth  while  to  listen 
to  songs  that  could  shake  the  feelings  of  a  man  so  profound 
in  wisdom  as  the  crafty  Ulysses. 

He  removed  the  wax  from  his  ears^  and  hearkened. 

What  he  heard  was  such  that  he  leaned  over  the  railing 
of  the  ship^  further  and  further,  until  after  a  few  seconds  he 
dropped  into  the  salt  waves. 

The  sailors  hesitated  about  abandoning  their  companion, 
but  Ulysses,  with  a  glance  of  the  eye,  ordered  theln  to  pass 
on  beyond  the  headland. 

With  all  the  strength  of  his  longing,  Euphorion  swam  to- 
ward the  voices. 

The  sea,  glistening  in  the  sun,  became  darker  as  it  receded 
into  the  blue  grotto.  At  the  entrance  the  Sirens,  all  seven 
of  them,  raised  themselves  upright.  Down  to  the  waist  they 
were  like  young  women;  they  had  eyes  of  grayish  blue, 
golden  hair,  sharp  teeth  in  mouths  that  were  rather  large, 
and  their  faces  were  like  those  of  children.  Their  hips  were 
enclosed  in  a  sheath  of  scales,  and  the  swimmer  noticed  the 
glittering  brilliance  of  their  tails  moving  level  with  the 
water's  surface. 

When  he  came  quite  close  to  them  the  Sirens  stopped 
singing;  then,  with  a  loud  cry,  they  seized  him,  dragged  him 
back  to  the  rear  of  the  grotto,  placed  him  upon  a  jutting 
rock  strewn  with  bones,  and  prepared  to  attack  him.  For 
these  beautiful  creatures  were  accustomed  to  tear  to  pieces 
the  bodies  of  the  shipwrecked  sailors  and  to  suck  their  blood 
with  puckered  mouths. 

It  chanced  that  one  of  the  Sirens  seemed  to  Euphorion 
more  beautiful  than  the  others,  with  a  countenance  less  im- 
passive. 

Turning  to  her,  he  said : 

*'I  shall  die  happy,  having  heard  the  song  of  the  daughters 


312  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

of  the  sea.  But  I  should  be  happier  still  if  death  should 
come  to  me  at  your  hands  alone/' 

The  Siren  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  ever  seen  a  wish  or  a  thought  illuminate  the  face  of 
a  man ;  for  usually  the  features  and  eyes  of  the  shipwrecked 
mariners  showed  nothing  but  terror ;  or  indeed^  more  often, 
utterly  exhausted  by  their  exertions,  they  displayed  no 
emotion  at  all. 

She  made  a  sign  to  her  sisters  to  keep  away,  saying: 

**The*stranger  belongs  to  me." 

The  rest  of  the  Sirens  withdrew,  either  because  she  who 
spoke  in  this  manner  had  some  authority  over  her  com- 
panions, or  because  some  tacit  agreement  among  them  deter- 
mined the  allotment  of  these  derelicts  of  the  sea. 

Alone  with  the  crafty  Greek,  she  asked : 

"What  is  your  name  ?'* 

And  when  she  had  learned  it  she  at  once  replied : 

**Euphorion,  I  love  you.  And,  although  immortal,  that  is 
the  first  time  I  have  ever  spoken  that  word  or  felt  that  which 
it  signifies.'* 

"And  what  is  your  name.'^''  askfed  the  Greek. 

"Leucosia." 

The  other  Sirens,  faithful  to  the  pact  agreed  upon,  let 
Euphorion  and  Leucosia  live  together  by  themselves  as  they 
liked. 

Back  of  the  grotto  there  was  a  secluded  meadow  in  which 
a  fountain  gently  played.  Euphorion  drank  its  water  and 
lived  on  shell-fish. 

Leucosia  never  left  him.  As  a  pastime  they  enjoyed  being 
rocked  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  to  be  lifted  up  and  carried 
along  amid  its  watery  caresses.  At  times  the  Siren  would 
let  herself  drop  from  the  summit  of  a  high  rock,  her  finny  tail 
straight  out  like  an  arrow;  he  would  catch  her  in  his  arms 
and  together  they  would  dive  deep  into  the  salty  pool.     At 


THE  SIREN  313 

other  times^  in  the  basins  of  the  coves,  they  reveled  in  the 
sunshine  among  the  foaming  eddies.  Or  again,  they  gam- 
boled with  the  dolphins,  playing  merry  pranks  upon  them. 

At  night,  when  the  other  §irens  went  to  sleep  on  the  grass, 
their  unwieldy  tails  stretching  out  side  by  side,  Euphorion 
and  Leucosia  retired  to  a  remote  nook  in  the  meadow,  and 
the  wanderer  fell  asleep  in  the  cold  arms  of  this  quaint 
goddess  of  the  seal 

They  conversed  but  little.  Leucosia  was  familiar  with 
words  which  pertained  to  things  necessary  to  nymph  life  on 
the  reefs  of  the  Mediterranean.  She  knew  how  to  name  the 
sky,  the  sea,  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  rocks,  the  fish, 
and  the  various  parts  of  the  body.  She  also  knew  how  to 
say:  **I  see;  I  hear;  I  feel;  I  love;  I  desire  something;  I 
hope;  I  want."  But  that  was  practically  all  the  vocabulary 
of  this  young  immortal. 

One  day  Euphorion  said  to  her : 

"When  from  the  swift  ship  I  heard  the  voices  of  the 
Sirens  you  boasted  that  you  knew  many  things  not  known  to 
man.     Tell  me  about  them  now,  Leucosia." 

But  she  gave  him  to  understand  that  they  spoke  untruths, 
only  to  excite  the  curiosity  of  travelers. 

And,  in  truth,  the  words  they  chanted,  which  he  now  heard 
every  evening,  did  not  evidence  an  intelligent  understanding 
of  the  spirit  of  things,  but  only  such  exceeding  emotion  as 
arises  from  rejoicing  at  the  coming  of  the  dawn,  the  glory 
of  the  setting  sun,  the  boundlessness  and  beauty  of  the  sea; 
or,  simply  the  joy  of  possessing  an  agile  body  incapable  of 
fatigue.  Sometimes  the  artful  singers  seemed  to  suggest 
the  pain  of  a  longing,  purposely  left  vague,  but  which  pre- 
cisely defined  the  gloom  in  the  soul  of  Euphorion,  burdened 
with  memories  of  his  life  as  a  human  being. 

Leucosia  noticed  the  melancholy  of  her  companion  and 
soothed  him  with  her  cool  kisses.     On  the  sea  and  in  the 


314  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES    ' 

hollow  grotto  she  was  stronger  than  he,  and  more  supple,  and 
helped  him  along  and  watched  over  him  every  moment.  But 
on  the  beach  and  in  the  fragrant  meadow,  obliged  to  walk 
on  her  hands  and  drag  her  cumbersome  tail  along,  she 
wondered  at  her  comrade  because  of  his  feet  which  enabled 
him  to  walk  erect,  and  envied  him.  In  such  moments  she 
felt  that  his  experiences  had  been  more  varied  than  hers, 
that  his  mind  must  be  filled  with  pictures  and  ideas  which 
she  could  not  even  surmise. 

He  resolved  to  teach  her,  attempting  to  give  her  some  idea 
how  human  beings  lived  on  the  continent  and  the  larger 
islands.  But  he  soon  saw  that  she  did  not  understand  him 
because  the  words  he  used  had  no  relation  to  any  obj  ect  upon 
which  she  could  put  her  eyes. 

Then  he  began  to  grow  a  trifle  weary.  Leucosia  no  longer 
had  the  charm  of  novelty.  There  was  too  great  a  difference 
between  them  because  of  the  primitiveness  of  her  mind. 
What  had  at  first  fascinated  him  now  made  him  tired.  He 
felt  a  sort  of  resentment  towards  Leucosia  on  account  of 
her  ignorance — and  because  of  her  cold,  briny  skin. 

He  remembered  his  life  as  it  used  to  be,  his  homesickness 
becoming  constantly  more  acute.  At  night,  in  the  quiet 
meadow,  while  the  strange  goddess  with  the  scaly  body  lay 
asleep  near  him  he  once  again  saw  the  fields,  the  woods, 
the  streams,  the  oxen  at  their  work,  the  dwelling-places  of 
human  beings,  the  booths  of  the  merchants,  the  temples  on 
the  hills,  the  ships  in  port,  and  the  taverns  where  one  drinks 
the  sparkling  wine;  the  little  dancing-girls,  dark-eyed,  be- 
spangled, who  stick  red  flowers  in  their  hair,  and  whose 
hands  are  warm  and  who  have  pretty  feet. 

About  this  time  a  vessel  which  happened  along  was  lured 
by  the  song  of  the  Sirens  and  wrecked  on  a  nearby  reef. 
Euphorion  was  horrified  when  he  saw  those  graceful  maidens 
set  their  piercing  teeth  into  the  bodies  of  the  seamen,  and 


THE  SIREN  315 

swell  up  with  the  blood  which  they  sucked  from  them.  Leu- 
cosia  showed  no  desire  either  to  sing  with  her  sisters  or  to 
share  in  their  orgy.  Euphorion  was  pleased;  but  on  ques- 
tioning her  he  learned  that  she  had  refrained  solely  not  to 
displease  him^  and  that — although  love,  common  to  nearly 
all  animals,  could  touch  her — pity,  peculiar  to  man  alone, 
had  remained  a  stranger  to  her. 

The  Sirens  could  breathe  with  equal  ease  under  the  water 
and  in  the  air.  With  the  help  of  his  companion,  Euphorion 
had  learned  how  to  hold  his  breath  under  water  longer  than 
a  diver.  Often  he  liked  to  swim  with  Leucosia  across  the 
coral  groves  and  the  gardens  of  undersea  plants,  uncertain 
whether  the  shapes  imperceptibly  changing  their  colors  in 
the  glass-like  brightness  of  the  sea  were  precious  stones, 
flowers,  or  living  creatures. 

On  one  of  these  excursions  he  discovered,  in  a  dell  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  the  remains  of  a  vessel,  and,  amid  the 
wreckage,  some  vases,  large  urns,  household  articles,  neck- 
laces, jewels,  girdles,  silver  mirrors,  small  painted  tablets 
showing  various  scenes  in  the  life  of  human  beings — and  a 
small  chest  filled  with  gold. 

With  the  assistance  of  Leucosia  he  brought  these  objects 
to  shore.  He  placed  a  necklace  around  her  throat,  put  brace- 
lets on  her  arms,  a  belt  about  her  waist,  and  handed  her  a 
looking-glass.  She  was  struck  by  her  own  beauty,  and 
smiled.  Then  he  explained  the  use  of  the  various  other 
articles  as  well  as  the  meaning  of  the  pictures  on  the  colored 
tablets. 

Now,  Leucosia  seemed  to  form  some  idea  of  a  life  other 
than  her  own.     She  said,  a  little  wistfully: 

"I  should  like  to  see  all  that;  but  I  am  only  a  nymph  of 
the  sea,  and  the  sea  is  all  that  I  shall  ever  understand." 

An  idea  suggested  itself  to  Euphorion.  By  further  excit- 
ing her  curiosity  about  the  earth,  he  might  make  it  a  means 


316  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

of  escape  from  the  island  of  the  Sirens.  So^  he  was  planning 
a  separation  from  his  companion  at  the  very  moment  when 
she  was  becoming  more  intelligent  and  beginning  to  under- 
stand him. 

He  continually  told  her  entrancing  tales  of  life  among 
men. 

**If  you  care  to  come  with  me^"  he  said  one  day^  "we  can 
swim  across  the  sea  until  we  come  to  a  city  called  Athens, 
scarcely  three  days'  journey^from  here.'* 

"But  I  cannot  walk  very  far  on  land." 

"I  will  help  you_,"  replied  Euphorion;  "and  when  we've 
arrived  in  the  city,  a  splendid  chariot,  like  those  you  saw 
in  the  pictures,  will  carry  you  wheresoever  you  wish  to  go. 
And  we  will  live  happily  together  with  the  gold  in  that 
chest." 

But  he  did  not  say  all  that  was  in  his  mind. 

A  three  days'  journey  was  mere  play  for  the  Siren.  At 
times  they  swam  along  side  by  side,  while  again,  Euphorion 
was  helped  by  her,  so  they  reached  the  shore  of  the  main- 
land without  his  being  exhausted  by  fatigue. 

They  landed  at  an  unfrequented  spot,  but  in  the  distance 
saw  signs  of  a  city,  approached  by  a  long  road,  which  was 
rugged  and  covered  with  dust. 

The  Siren  crawled  along  for  a  while  on  her  hands,  but  she 
was  bruised  by  the  stones  and  weakened  by  the  scorching 
rays  of  the  sun. 

Euphorion  was  already  far  in  advance  of  her.  She  called 
to  him : 

"The  land  upon  which  men  live  is  hard  and  rough.  In 
the  sea  I  helped  to  carry  you;  now,  in  turn,  should  you  not 
help  me.^" 

He  did  not  have  the  heart  to  refuse.  Retracing  his  steps, 
he  stooped  down  and  offered  to  assist  her.  The  Siren  put 
her  arms  around  his  neck;  he  rose,  and  as  he  walked  along 


THE  SIREN  317 

the  road  the  end  of  her  scale-covered  tail  dragged  in  the  dust. 

Perspiring  under  his  burden,  Euphorion  muttered  words 
of  annoyance.  He  began  to  ask  himself  what  he  was  to  do 
with  this  fin-tailed  woman,  now  that  they  were  in  the  country 
of  men. 

Suddenly  he  roughly  unclasped  from  his  neck  the  arms 
of  Leucosia,  let  her  fall  at  full  length  to  the  ground,  and  ran 
away  with  rapid  strides. 

"Euphorion !    Euphorion  V*  cried  the  Siren,  plaintively. 

That  cry  was  so  touching  that  he  stopped. 

*'Be  patient,''  he  said.  **I  am  going  to  the  city,  and  will 
return  with  a  chariot  to  fetch  you." 

**No,  no,"  she  moaned.  *'You  will  not  return.  I  know  it. 
You  no  longer  love  me  because  I  am  not  like  other  women. 
To  me  you  owe  your  life,  and  it  is  through  you  that  I  am 
doomed  to  lose  mine,  for  surely  the  gods  have  deprived  me  of 
immortality  as  punishment  for  having  fallen  in  love  with  a 
human  being." 

She  wrung  her  hands,  and  for  the  first  time  tears  flowed 
from  her  pale  eyes.  Her  tail,  whose  beautiful  shiny  colors 
were  soiled  by  the  dust,  beat  feebly  on  the  hard  road. 

"Euphorion!  Euphorion!  Have  pity  on  me!"  she  re-* 
sumed. 

"  'Pity'.^"  he  exclaimed.  "You  have  never  before  spoken 
that  word !" 

"That  is  because  I  have  never  before  suffered,"  she  re- 
plied. "Listen  to  me,  dear  friend  and  comrade.  I  clearly 
see  that  I  shall  always  be  an  embarrassment  to  you.  And 
as  for  me,  I  know  I  would  be  uneasy  among  women  who 
have  feet.  Alas !  that  which  I  longed  for,  now  terrifies  me. 
But  I  am  too  weak  to  regain  the  sea.  Carry  me  to  the 
shore,  and  111  return  alone  to  my  cruel  sisters." 

"  'Cruel' }"  said  Euphorion.  "Still  another  word  which 
you  have  never  before  used !" 


318  FRENCH  SHORT  STORIES 

*'Alas !"  she  answered^  "it  is  you  who  have  revealed  its 
meaning  to  me.'* 

Euphorion,  without  saying  anything,  lifted  her  into  his 
arms,  while  her  long  flowing  hair  entwined  itself  about  his 
knees.  She  smiled  at  him  amid  her  tears,  and  then  she 
sighed  so  tenderly  that  he  felt  his  resolution  weakening. 

He  placed  Leucosia  gently  on  the  beach,  near  the  water's 
edge. 

"Adieu,  dear  friend,"  she  said. 

"Ah,"  he  sobbed,  "if  only  you  were  like  other  women." 

"But  why  hope!  I  am  not.  Besides,  I  have  no  need  of 
limbs  in  the  waters  of  the  sea.  I  shall  try  to  forget — forget, 
and  become  once  more  like  my  sisters.  For  I  shall  be  exceed- 
ingly unhappy  if  I  remember  you  and  all  the  things  you  have 
taught  me.  But  then,  can  I  forget  ? — Alas,  I  fear  I  cannot, 
and  I  shall  be  a  poor  forsaken  nymph,  no  longer  even  a 
Siren." 

Euphorion  wept: 

"Become  what  you  will,"  said  he.  "I  know  that  I  love 
you,  and  I  do  not  want  you  to  go  away  without  me.  Let 
happen  whatsoever  may  please  the  gods — you  and  I  are  go- 
ing  away  together !" 

Euphorion  would  really  have  committed  that  folly  had  it 
not  been  for  Thetis,  kindhearted  goddess  of  the  sea,  who 
appeared  before  the  two  lovers. 

"I  have  long  been  interested  in  you,"  she  said,  "and  I  wish 
you  well.  You,  Leucosia,  have  been  kind  to  one  who  but 
lately  fought  at  the  side  of  my  son  Achilles;  while  you, 
Euphorion,  have  shown  compassion  to  one  of  my  daughters 
of  the  sea  at  the  very  moment  when  you  were  about  to  realize 
your  dearest  hope — that  of  once  more  seeing  your  native 
land ;  and  finally,  because  you  have  elevated  each  other,  the 
one  through  greater  knowledge,  the  other  by  increased  forti- 
tude. 


THE  SIREN  319 

"There  are  several  ways  in  which  I  can  reward  you.  Be- 
fore letting  you  depart  alone,  Leucosia,  I  can  remove  from 
,your  memory  all  that  you  have  experienced,  so  that  from 
now  on  it  will  never  cause  you  any  suffering.  Or,  Euphorion, 
I  can  give  you  the  fins  and  the  form  of  a  dolphin,  preserving 
your  human  mind  with  all  its  associations,  and  you  can  live 
pleasantly  with  Leucosia  in  the  boundless  sea.  But  it  is  my  ^ 
wish  to  make  you  happy  in  the  manner  you  yourselves  are 
thinking  of  this  minute.  Leucosia,  dear  daughter  of  the 
sea,  would  you  give  up  your  immortality  to  live  with  him?'* 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Siren.  "For  to  be  immortal,  and 
happy,  one  must  not  think  of  anything.** 

"Thank  you  !'*  said  Thetis. 

"Oh!**  Leucosia  exclaimed,  "I  was  not  thinking  of  you 
when  I  said  that.  I  had  in  mind  only  an  insignificant  little 
goddess  like  myself.** 

"You  need  make  no  excuses,  my  child.  Then,  do  I  under- 
stand that  you  are  willing  to  become  mortal?'* 

"With  all  my  heart!'* 

"Become  a  woman  then,  and  follow  him  whom  you  love.** 

Thetis  touched  the  Siren  lightly  with  her  trident;  and  the 
transformation  took  place  forthwith. 

"My  child,**  added  the  kindly  goddess,  "go  now  and  ask 
for  a  fitting  garment  from  the  priestess  of  the  little  temple 
which  you  see,  a  hundred  paces  from  here,  on  the  hill.  .  .  . 
And  proceed  together  toward  the  city.** 

Euphorion  and  Leucosia  beamed  with  joy.  But  Thetis,  on 
leaving  them,  smiled  somewhat  doubtfully;  for  after  all, 
could  she  be  absolutely  certain  that  she  had  made  them 
happy? 


i 


APPENDIX 

Prepared  by  George  L.  Marsh,  author  of  the  Manual  for  the  Study 
of  English  Classics 

HELPS  TO  STUDY 
The  Short  Story  Form 

The  essence  of  the  distinction  now  usually  made  between  the  ar- 
tistic short  story  as  a  literary  form,  and  other  brief  narratives,  is 
found  in  Poe's  review  of  Hawthorne's  Twice-Told  Tales  (men- 
tioned p.  7),  which  appeared  in  Graham's  Magazine  in  1842.  The 
most  important  parts  of  Poe's  essay  are  as  follows: 

*'The  tale  proper,  in  my  opinion,  affords  unquestionably  theij 
fairest  field  for  the  exercise  of  the  loftiest  talent,  which  can  be 
afforded  by  the  wide  domains  of  mere  prose.  .  .  .  Were  I 
called  upon  ...  to  designate  that  class  of  composition  which, 
next  to  such  a  poem  as  I  have-  suggested  [a  rimed  poem,  not  to 
exceed  in  length  what  might  be  perused  in  an  hour],  should  best 
fulfill  the  demands  of  high  genius — should  offer  it  the  most  advan- 
tageous field  of  exertion — I  should  unhesitatingly  speak  of  the 
prose  tale,  as  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  here  exemplified  it.  I  allude  to 
the  short  prose  narrative  requiring  from  a  half -hour  to  one  or  two 
hours  in  its  perusal.  ...  A  skillful  literary  artist  has  con- 
structed a  tale.  If  wise,  he  has  not  fashioned  his  thoughts  to 
accommodate  his  incidents;  but  having  conceived,  with  deliberate 
care,  a  certain  unique  or  single  effect  to  be  wrought  out,  he  then 
invents  such  incidents — he  then  combines  such  events  as  may  best 
aid  him  in  establishing  this  preconceived  effect.  If  his  very  initial 
sentence  tends  not  to  the  outbringing  of  this  effect,  then  he  has 
failed  in  his  first  step.  In  the  whole  composition  there  should  be 
no  word  written,  of  which  the  tendency,  direct  or  indirect,  is  not 
to  the  one  preestablished  design.  And  by  such  means,  with  such 
care  and  skill,  a  picture  is  at  length  painted  which  leaves  in  the 
mind  of  him  who  contemplates  it  with  a  kindred  art,  a  sense  of  the 
fullest  satisfaction.     The  idea  of  the  tale  has  been  presenttd  un- 

320 


APPENDIX  321 

blemished,  because  undisturbed;  and  this  is  an  end  unattainable 
by  the  novel.  .  .  .  Thus  the  field  of  this  species  of  composition, 
if  not  in  so  elevated  a  region  on  the  mountain  of  Mind,  is  a  table- 
land of  far  vaster  extent  than  the  domain  of  the  mere  poem.  Its 
products  are  never  so  rich,  but  infinitely  more  numerous,  and  more 
appreciable  by  the  mass  of  mankind.  The  writer  of  the  prose  tale, 
in  short,  may  bring  to  his  theme  a  vast  variety  of  modes  or  inflec- 
tions of  thought  and  expression — (the  ratiocinative,  for  example, 
the  sarcastic  or  the  humorous)  which  are  not  only  antagonistical 
to  the  nature  of  the  poem,  but  absolutely  forbidden  by  one  of  its 
most  peculiar  and  indispensable  adjuncts;  we  allude,  of  course,  to 
rhythm. ' ' 

This  fundamental  statement  has  been  much  elaborated  in  books 
on  the  short  story,  which  are  very  numerous.  A  good  list  may  be 
found  in  the  Introduction  and  the  Appendix  to  Types  of  the  Short 
Story,  Lake  English  Classics. 

Plan  for  the  Study  of  a  Short  Story 
(Condensed  from  Types  of  the  Short  Story) 


The  following  list  of  types  is  not  exhaustive,  nor  are  all  the 
types  coordinate  or  mutually  exclusive;  but  the  lifft  is  given  .for  its 
suggestiveness : 

Tale.  Story  of  Dramatic  Incident. 

Story  of  Romantic  Adventure.  Love  Story. 

Story  of  Terror.  Story  of  the  Supernatural. 

Humorous  Story.  Story  of  Local  Color.    ^ 

Apologue.  Story  of  Ingenuity. 

Character  Sketch.  Animal  Story. 

Psychological  Story.  Story  of  Fantasy. 
Story  of  Youth. 

n.      PURPOSE 

Has  the  author  a  purpose  beyond  that  of  entertaining  his  readers  ? 
If  so,  state  this  purpose. 

11 


322  APPENDIX 

III.      TITLE 

The  title  of  a  short  story  may  serve  various  purposes,  of  which 
the  following  are  the  most  common: 

To  name  the  principal  character,  as  Mateo  Falcone  (Merimee) ; 
or  to  characterize  him,  as  The  Thief  (Dostoevski). 

To  give  the  scene  or  setting  of  the  story,  as  The  WrecTc  (Mau- 
passant) . 

To  suggest  the  chief  incident,  as  The  Atheist's  Mass  (Balzac). 

To  name  some  object  which  plays  an  important  part  in  the  story, 
as  The  NecMace  (Maupassant). 

To  suggest  the  type  of  the  story,  as  The  Haunted  and  the 
Haunters   (Lytton). 

To  give  the  tone  of  the  story,  as  Fear   (Maupassant). 

To  arouse  curiosity,  as  .007  (Kipling). 

a.  Which  of  these  purposes  does  the  title  of  the  story  in  hand 
serve?     Has  it  a  purpose  not  mentioned  above? 

&.  Is  the  title  well  chosen? 

IV.      BEGINNING 

The  opening  paragraphs  of  a  story  may  serve  various  purposes, 
of  which  the  following  are  among  the  most  common: 

To  start  the  action  of  the  story,  either  with  incident  or  with 
conversation. 

To  introduce  characters,  by  description  or  by  comment. 

To  give  the  setting,  describing  the  scene  of  the  story. 

To  state  or  suggest  the  central  idea  of  the  story. 

To  tell  how  the  story  came  to  be  written  or  published. 

a.  What  purpose  or  purposes  are  served  by  the  first  paragraph  or 
two  of  the  story?    Do  they  serve  any  purpose  not  mentioned  above? 

b.  Is  interest  aroused  at  the  beginning? 

V.      PLOT 

The  plot  of  a  story  may  be  described  as  ''what  happens  to  the 
characters.''  Plots  may  be  classified  on  the  basis  of  their  proba- 
bility in  three  groups:  probable,  improbable,  or  impossible.  In 
realistic  fiction  the  plot  is  always  probable;  in  romantic  fiction  it 
may  be  improbable  or  impossible. 

a.  Is  the  plot  of  this  story  probable,  improbable,  or  impossible  f 


APPENDIX  323 

h.  Is  the  movement  of  the  story,  i.  e.,  the  way  events  succeed  each 
other,  swift,  gradual,  or  slow? 

c.  Is  the  story  interesting?  Are  there  any  points  where  the 
interest  flags? 

•J^he  climax  of  a  i?tory  is  the  point  where  the  interest  is  at  the 
highest  pitch.  In  many  modern  short  stories,  the  whole  plot  is 
built  upon  the  climax;  the  story  exists  for  this,  and  when  it  is 
reached,  the  story  ends.  But  in  the  tale,  and  in  some  modern 
stories,  the  climax  is  less  important. 

d.  Where  is  the  climax  in  the  story  in  hand?  Does  the  whole 
story  converge  upon  this  point? 

In  most  stories,  besides  the  principal  cligiax  there  are  minor  ones. 

e.  Are  these  minor  climaxes  in  the  story  read?     Where? 

An  incident  in  a  story  that  helps  in  plot  development  is  called  a 
contributing  incident.  An  incident  that  does  not  help  in  plot  de- 
velopment is  called  an  episode.  Episodes  may  be  omitted  without 
affecting  the  main  story. 

/.  Are  there  any  episodes  in  the  story  read?  Can  you  see  why 
they  are  introduced? 

VI.      CHARACTERS 

a.  Are  the  characters  many  or  few? 

b.  Are  the  characters  lifelike?  From  what  class  of  society  are 
they  drawn? 

There  are  four  ways  of  showing  character:  (1)  by  author ^s  com- 
ment; (2)  by  comment  of  other  characters;  (3)  by  what  a  char- 
acter does;    (4)   by  what  he  says. 

c.  In  the  story  read,  which  of  the  foregoing  methods  are  used? 
Is  any  one  of  them  used  more  than  the  others?  Find  good  exam- 
ples of  each  method,  if  possible. 

VII.      SETTING 

a.  Are  the  time  and  place  of  the  story  definitely  stated,  or  do 
you  infer  them  from  casual  hints? 

h.  Are  the  surroundings  made  clear?  Does  the  author  give  in 
much  detail  the  appearance  of  a  village  street,  the  interior  of  a 
house,  etc.?     If  so,  why? 

c.  Is  there  much  description  of  nature? 


324      ,  APPENDIX 

d.  In  describing  people,  does  the  author  give  their  features? 
Their  figure?     Their  dress? 

In  some  stories  the  characters  or  the  settings  are  purposely 
vague,  just  as  in  a  picture  an  artist  may  give  us  softened  outlines 
or  a  shadowy  background,  to  impart  a  certain  atmosphere  or  tone 
to  the  picture. 

e.  Is  this  the  case  in  the.  story  read? 

/.  Is  there  sufficient  description  to  make  you  see  clearly  the 
persons   in  the  story? 

g.  Is  there  much  use  of  local  color? 

VIII.      STYLE 

a.  Is  the  story  told  chiefly  through  conversation,  or  chiefly 
through  direct  narration? 

&.  Is  dialect  used?     If  it  is,  what  is  gained  by  its  use? 

c.  Is  the  style  clear,  or  are  there  sentences  that  you  must  read 
a  second  time? 

d.  Does  the  author  possess  a  wide  vocabulary? 

e.  Does  he  use  unfamiliar  or  technical  terms?  If  so,  does  he 
gain  or  lose  by  this? 

/.  Are  figures  of  speech  frequent?  Point  out  a  figure  of  speech, 
and  show  what  is  gained  by  its  use. 

g.  Does  the  style  possess  individuality,  so  that  you  feel  that 
after  reading  several  of  the  writer's  stories  you  could  recognize 
his  work? 

h.  Which  of  the  following  terms  describe  the  style  of  the  story: 
swift;  graphic;  picturesque;  easy;  flowing;  abrupt;  epigram- 
matic; intense;  transparent;  involved;  careful;  polished;  tame; 
wordy;  flat?    Can  you  characterize  it  by  any  other  term? 

Stories  in  This  Volume 

What  reasons  have  there  been  for  the  remarkable  development 
of  the  short  story  in  the  last  century  (p.  8)  ? 

Sum  up  the  main  differences  between  the  short  story  and  the 
novel  (p.  9)  and  illustrate  them  by  reference  to  specific  stories  in 
this  collection. 

What  story  in  this  volume  approaches  closest  to  the  scope  and 
manner  of  the  novel?     Do  you  think  this  particular  story  could 


APPENDIX  325 

be  expanded  into  a  novel?  If  so,  what  would  be  the  process? 
Could  any  other  stories  in  the  book  be  similarly  expanded? 

Study  the  differences  between  the  extremely  short  story  (of  the 
type  mentioned  on  p.  11)  and  the  longer  ^' short  story/'  and  dis- 
cuss the  advantages  and  the  disadvantages  of  each  kind. 

Discuss  the  question  (implied  on  p.  17)  of  French  preeminence 
in  the  short  story.  Take  into  account  the  importance  of  Irving 
and  Hawthorne  and  Poe  (all  Americans)  in  developing  and  ex- 
plaining the  technique  of  the  form,  and  the  remarkable  work  of, 
for  example,  Slevenson  and  Kipling  and  Conrad  (in  England), 
Bret  Harte,  Henry  James,  and  ''O.  Henry''  (in  America).  For 
the  importance  of  Irving  and  Hawthorne  and  Poe  as  pioneers,  see 
the  Lake  Classic  edition  of  The  Sketch  Boole  (pp.  31-32)  and  the 
passage  from  Poe's  review  of  Hawthorne  on  page  320  above. 

Stevenson  once  declared  that  there  are  only  three  ways  of  writing 
a  story :  * '  You  may  take  a  plot  and  fit  characters  to  it,  or  you  may 
take  a  character  and  choose  incidents  and  situations  to  develop  it, 
or  .  .  .  you  may  take  a  certain  atmosphere  and  get  actions  and 
persons  to  express  and  realize  it."  As  an  example  of  the  third 
class  he  mentions  his  own  story,  ''The  Merry  Men";  the  other 
classes  are  self-explanatory.  It  will  be  interesting  to  apply  this 
classification  to  the  stories  in  the  text. 

AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

Find  examples  in  this  story  (and  also  in  the  others  from  Balzac) 
of  the  ''trick"  of  realism  mentioned  at  the  top  of  page  20. 

Trace  hints  of  the  sinister;  devices  to  keep  up  suspense. 

Had  you  any  definite  idea  who  the  mysterious  stranger  was, 
before  you  were  told?  Were  you  completely  surprised?  If  not, 
point  out  exactly  what  gave  you  your  idea. 

Are  there  any  hints  before  page  29  that  the  woman  first  intro- 
duced is  a  nun?    Why  were  not  nuns  and  priests  safe? 

Who  is  meant  by  the  "sacred  personage"  mentioned  on  page 
34?    When  do  you  find  out  definitely,  and  how? 

THE  atheist's    MASS 

Are  you  deceived  by  the  beginning  of  this  story?  Do  you  think 
it  objectionable  to  begin  as  if  the  story  were  about  Dr.  Bianchon 


326  ^         APPENDIX 

when  it  is  really  about  Desplein?     What  purpose  is  served  by  so 
many  details  about  the  former? 

Find  indications  that  the  translation  was  made  by  an  English- 
man (p.  57).  Do  you  see  any  defense  for  the  use  of  purely  English 
terms  in  a  story  of  which  the  scene  is  in  France? 

COLONEL   CHABERT 

What  do  you  think  of  the  amount  of  legal  detail  in  the  early 
part  of  this  story?  How  do  you  account  for  it  (p.  19)?  Do  you 
find  any  indication  of  a  general  opinion  as  to  lawyers  (p.  71)  ? 

What  is  the  purpose  and  effect  of  such  description  as  that  on 
page  99? 

Trace  carefully  the  steps  leading  up  to  and  accounting  for 
Colonel  Chabert's  final  action;  that  of  his  wife.  On  the  basis  of 
all  this  make  a  brief  characterization  of  each. 

MATEO  FALCONE 

Do  you  notice  any  difference  in  directness  and  conciseness  be- 
tween Balzac  and  Merimee?     In  the  personal  note   (p.  144)? 

Is  any  defense  or  any  condemnation  of  the  father  ^s  action  im- 
plied in  this  story?  How  do  you  find  the  action  accounted  for  in 
his  character  as  presented?  Is  the  boy's  action  made  to  seem 
natural,  reasonable? 

CROISILLES 

Trace  the  steps  in  accounting  for  the  final  action  of  Mile. 
Godeau.     Is  it  made  to  seem  reasonable? 

Do  you  consider  all  the  formal  description  and  explanation  of 
this  story  necessary  or  important? 

MAUPASSANT    IN    GENERAL 

Which  of  these  stories  by  Maupassant  deal  with  the  supreme 
moment  in  a  life?    Are  all  such  stories  complete  dramas? 

Do  you  find  any  admission  of  non-essentials;  any  wasting  of 
words;  any  digressions?    Answer  specifically. 

Do  you  find  any  stories  in  which  the  movement  is  not  perpetu- 
ally forward?     Answer  specifically. 

Which  of  these  stories  are  realistic?  Are  there  any  that  are 
not  realistic  at  least  in  details? 


APPENDIX  327 

Find  examples  of  the  characteristics  mentioned  on  page  193. 

Which  do  you  consider  most  remarkable  of  these  stories  for 
swiftness,   directness,   compression? 

Do  you  notice  any  faulty  idiom  apparently  due  to  imperfect 
translation?     Point  out  examples  if  you  find  any. 

Comment  on  the  paragraphing.  How  does  it  differ  from  the 
usual  English  paj'agraphing?  Has  it  any  advantages  over  the 
latter? 

THE   NECKLACE 

Criticize  or  defend  a  choice  of  this  story  as  the  best  representa- 
tive of  Maupassant's  powers,  especially  in  making  a  short  story 
present  a  complete  drama. 

Point  out  in  how  many  ways  irony  is  the  main  idea. 

THE    WRECK 

Why  do  we  have  the  description  of  La  Eochelle  on  page  206? 
Would  it  be  unjustifiable  if  much  longer? 

Should  the  Englishman's  presence  on  the  wreck  be  accounted 
for?  Should  the  narrator's  business  report  be  mentioned  at  or 
near  the  end? 

Do  you  find  any  indication  of  the  attitude  or  feeling  of  the 
girl?     Would  any  other  ending  of  the  story  be  reasonable? 

FRIGHT 

Are  the  two  different  examples  of  '^ fright''  in  this  story  suffi- 
ciently related  for  unity?  Is  enough  explanation  given  or  im- 
plied? 

TWO   FRIENDS 

Do  you  find  any  comment  here?  Any  apparent  bias  of  the 
narrator?  Any  definite  indication  that  he  thinks  the  Prussians 
were  cruel  or  unjustifiable?  What,  nevertheless,  is  the  effect  of 
the  story? 

THE  HAND 

What  do  you  find  to  be  Maupassant's  attitude  toward  the  super-  ■ 
natural — or  the  apparently  supernatural?     Which  of  these  '' hor- 
ror stories"  seems  to  you  most  impressive? 

THE  LAST  LESSON 

Specify  the  various  ways  in  which  the  ityle  of  this  story  is 
made  suitable  to  its  central  idea  and  its  subject  matter. 


328  APPENDIX 

THE   pope's   mule 

Explain  the  historical  setting. 

Find  the  best  examples  of  the  mock-heroic  or  burlesque  in  mate- 
rial or  style. 

How  is  being  kicked  by  a  mule  made  to  seem  worthy  of  treat- 
ment in  a  story  of  eleven  pages? 

the  reverend  father  GAUCHER 'S  ELIXIR 

Note  how  Daudet's  good-natured  but  sly  and  insinuating  atti- 
tude toward  worldliness  in  churchmen  resembles  that  of  Chaucer 
in  the  Prologue  to  Canterbury  Tales. 

A  PIECE   OF   BREAD 

Observe  the  sympathetic  attitude  toward  the  poor  which  is  very 
characteristic  of  Coppee. 

What  vould  you  think  of  omitting  all  after  the  climax  (near 
the  top  of  p.  281)  ?    What  does  the  rest  add  to  the  story? 

THE  JUGGLER  OF  NOTRE  DAME 

Students  who  are  acquainted  with  Massenet's  opera  on  the 
theme  of  this  story  may  study  and  report  on  the  ways  in  which 
so  simple  a  tale  has  been  elaborated  for  the  stage. 

Can  you  account  reasonably  for  such  paragraphing  as  that  near 
the  bottom  of  page  287  and  the  top  of  288? 

THE   BIRDS   IN    THE   LETTER-BOX 

Note  how  an  impression  of  great  familiarity  with  the  habits  of 
birds  is  given. 

Write  a  brief  character  sketch  of  the  abbe. 

BOUM-BOUM 

Does  the  use  of  thou  in  translation  of  French  tu — a  distinction 
not  now  made  in  English — seem  natural  and  effective? 

Is  the  kindness  of  the  clown  adequately  accounted  for?  The 
recovery  of  the  child? 

THE  SIREN 

What  do  you  think  of  the  modern  notes  in  the  treatment  of  an 
ancient   story,  as  found  here? 


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